hot hot heat

with the 110 goal fresh on my mind, i went vegas to get lucky with my golf game.

the first day, we played anthem.  everyone loved the scenic dessert course and all its amenities - scented ice towels, for pete's sake! in between frantically checking my blackberry for work and sweating bullets, i shot a 123.  yes, a 123, my worst performance ever recorded on paper.

the next day, shrugging off the my previous poor performance, my sweat glands and i played dragon ridge.  we did a little better this time around, shooting a 115.

want to know how many balls i lost over these 2 days?  well, it is safe to say that i need to go back to playing presidio in order to replenish my stash.

f. is a letter

--
course played:  transit valley country club
holes played:  1 through 9
balls lost:  1 (?)
balls found:  0
--


transit valley course



my golf bag on the transit valley course... on wheels

i used a pull cart for the first time when i was in buffalo.  i tried to resist because i thought that it made my cool golf bag look too much like it rides the short bus to school.  under pressure, i buckled, and dragged this thing around during my two days of sub-par (literally!) golf.  this is what i brought:

a.  balls to lose and tees to break go in that pocket of my ping 4 under golf bag
b.  the driver that refused to make contact with any balls - blame it on the arrow, not the indian
c.  towel #1 because it was extra hot
d.  towel #2 because it was extra muddy
e.  neel's mom's 3-wood that i borrowed and was too bad/afraid to use
f.  the grade for my performance, my bag's appearance* and, coincidentally, the letter of the alphabet uttered frequently during frustrating rounds of golf


*  what is this, a towel rack?

12 hole jitters

--
course played:  transit valley country club
holes played:  1 through 18
balls lost:  2
balls found:  2
--

transit valley

i went to buffalo to celebrate memorial day and to swing some clubs at the place where elliot perfected his golf game.  according to the website, i was in some serious company:

"The primary focus of our club is golf. 

Transit Valley’s reputation as one of the finest golf courses

drew some of the world's greatest golfers.  

Walter Hagen, Sam Snead, Cary Middlecoff, Jackie Burke, Jimmy Thompson,

Bobby Locke, and Gene Sarazen all were visiting players. 

Walter Hagen was an Honorary Member of Transit Valley."

eager to impress elliot's mom, "giver of my driver," and neel, "person to whom i had been talking a big game," i took my game face out of my suitcase and put it on before heading to the course. 

it must have fallen off en route to transit.  to sum up a long and painful round, it took 12 holes for me to start playing some respectable golf - the '12 hole jitters' as some might say.  after regaining my composure, it then took me only 1 hole to lose it again.

i will take this experience as a sign that i need some actual lessons.  watching the golf channel doesn't seem to be doing it for me.

i wear my heart on...

--
course played:  presidio
holes played:  1 to 9.5
balls lost:  2
balls found:  6
--



MY GOLF BALL

...  or at least i did yesterday.  over the past few weeks, i feel that there has been improvement to my game.  blinded by this illusion of confidence, i made the executive decision to graduate from playing the busch league noodles and muddy talyormades that i have been finding on the course.  i deemed myself ready to use a couple new shimmery calloway solaires.  to personalize them, i sharpie-tattooed each with a tiny little red heart.

then, this happened:

i duffed my very first swing on the very first hole and sent the ball rolling ~15 yards.  at least it was retrievable.  on the second swing, i swung it like i meant it and sent the newly tattooed ball flying - in the wrong direction - out of bounds - over a net - and into the driving range.  MAN DOWN!

its tattooed brother didn't survive much longer.  somewhere between the second and third holes, that little guy disappeared into the bushes.

apparently, new balls aren't meant for everyone.{*}

*insert obviouss, yet off-color ball-related joke here 

binky & me

--
course played:  presidio
holes played:  1 through 9
balls lost:  3
balls found:  2
--

binky bunker, the golfing clown who doesn't like the rules


golf etiquette, much like women's golf clothing, is lame.  each time i play, i get reminded of this fact.  take a look at some of the rules:

1.  don't move, talk or stand close to a player making a stroke.
2.  don't play until the group in front is out of the way.
3.  always play without delay. leave the putting green as soon as all players in your group have holed out.
4.  invite faster groups to play through.
5.  replace divots. smooth footprints in bunkers.
6.  don't step on the line of another player's putt.
7.  don't drop clubs on the putting green.


to these rules and to those who follow them (ehem, elliot), i ask the following: 

what if i am just trying to hang out and TALK to my friends who happen to be the GROUP IN FRONT of me?

what if i want to celebrate my triple bogey on the PUTTING GREEN and want to INVITE FASTER GROUPS to watch me putt (since they have caught up anyways)? 

what if i prize the occasional DIVOT because it means that my ball finally got some air?

lines are invisible and hard to read.  so, what if i accidentally STEP on your invisible/non-existent LINE because i couldn't see it?  your ball probably won't follow anyways because, like i said before, the line is invisible and hard. to. read.

and lastly, what kind of CLUB doesn't let you DROP it like it's hot?*

binky bunker putting footprints in the sand AND 'grounding' his sand wedge

after all this ranting, i do believe that the lesson that we have learned is that binky bunker and i are two golf clowns who don't like to play by the rules...  we try just our best to abide by them so people can tolerate playing with us.


*yes, i know.  this is a little bit of a stretch.  just go with it please.

oh tina...

i wanted to share a small excerpt from the praywer that tina fey wrote for her daughter that's part of her new book, bossypants.  while i assume that it was penned after william bulter yeat's prayer for his daughter, this version is about one hundred years younger and one hundred times more relevant.  have a read:

'lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. 

something where she can make her own hours

but still feel intellectually fulfilled

and get outside sometimes

and not have to wear high heels.

no heels allowed at this party

what would that be, lord?  architecture?  midwifery? 

golf course design? 

i’m asking you, because if i knew, i’d be doing it, youdammit.'

- pebble beach -
 a special thanks to huffington post for letting me post this photo without permission



punchy, but maybe a little too close to home for those of us who would actually much rather be designing golf courses (or be on one, for that matter) than working in finance and wearing high heels.

three facts

a friendly little reminder

 - fact 1 -

at top speed, snails cover a mere 3 inches per minute. 

- fact 2 -

on sunday, two pesky snails played in front of us for 18 holes.

- fact 3 -

i took the below photo as evidence of their remarkable human costumes.  

away from the speed at which they moved 

(approximately 3 inches per minute), 

they were entirely indistinguishable from real-live humans!



two snails on the green (and i made an infinity sign)



"cramped," is my style

--
course played:  claremont country club
holes played:  front 9
balls lost:  1
balls found:  2
--
i have a confession:  my golf game is being held back because noone makes cute golf clothes for girls.*

and yes, i have scoured the internet high and low in my search for some course-appropriate gear.  i have been hugely dissapointed and have come up (mostly) empty handed - thanks for making polos, polo.

here are some examples of what i have found:

thanks, but no thanks nike.  i JUST don't want to DO IT in these options.

thanks, but no thanks adidas.  All Day i don't Dream About Shants (SHort pANTS).

getting warmer, calloway.  i like the splash of color, but i 'd rather not wear board shorts.

my style is also majorly cramped by country club rules.  take claremont's golf dress code, for example:

"Men: Slacks, collared sport shirts - with tails tucked in-

(turtle neck and mock turtle neck shirts are acceptable),

sweaters and appropriate clothing for foul weather.

No shorts at any time.

Women: Slacks, knee length skirts or shorts,

collared or uncollared sport shirts,

long, short-sleeved blouses and collared sleeveless shirts.

No tank tops.

Appropriate clothing for foul weather."

whew, thank god mock turltenecks are ok for guys!  and uncollared sports shirts are ok for girls!  but, no tank tops?  i lose a lot of range of motion in constricting sport shirts!!!


* granted, my lack of practice might also be holding me back, but i think that could be easily remedied if i possessed the right gear.

the blob

- elliot -

with this post,

i introduce you to elliot,

ski expert,

golf expert,

and guest blogger extraordinaire.

-christina

--

fact:  when it snows in tahoe, it “dumps"

fact:  when it dumps in tahoe, all of california shows up at squaw

not to piggyback on christina’s last entry, but excited for west coast powder doesn’t quite do it justice.  my “work day” on friday was devoted to the caltran website, tahoeloco weather page and google maps as I monitored highway cams, followed weather patterns and plotted alternate routes around road closures and avalanches. I come from a place where crust is king and I was NOT going to miss 11ft worth of accumulation.

the one thing you can’t account for on your journey to the promise land is the lift line, or as we now like to call it, the lift blob.  having dropped Christina off at her level 4 lesson, kilo, franimal and i set-out on what we thought was going to be an epic day.  here’s how it played out along with a “how to” on navigating the lift blob for anyone planning on making the trek to Squallywood.

KT-22 on the left, black blob around tree = "line"

1.  don’t take shortcuts

we had a decision to make, the lines at KT-22 and Red Dog were daunting and the Funitel wasn’t scheduled to open for another hour.  exhibition was screaming our name with nary a line, we went for it.  suckers.  we were back at the bottom within 5 min and the lines at the aforementioned lifts had only grown.  F   

2.  don’t actually go to the end of the line

if you want to sleep at night, by all means, go to the end of the line. if you don’t want to wait in line for an hour, casually cut through the line as if you are only passing by and then jump right in once you’re at least an arms length away from the people you just walked by.  you’ll filter towards the front while the peeps in the back stand motionless muttering under their breath (remember; words can never hurt you).  we waited in line for an hour, after a couple skis to the back of the head and narrowly avoiding a toppling girl who started a domino-like chain, we made it onto the funitel.

3.  keep moving up the mountain

due to avalanche control, squaw opens in stages, bottom half, top-half, headwall then granite chief and lastly silverado. headwall wasn’t spinning yet, groomers off siberia / gold coast simply weren’t what we drove 8 hours for and granite chief wasn’t open so we gambled and headed towards silverado.  CLOSED. at this point we may as well just shoot ourselves in the foot b/c we have one option now, broken arrow, underneath the funitel all the way back to the b o t t o m.

4.  avoid europeans and south americans

in the blob, people will undoubtedly cut you, it’s going to happen.  the only thing worse than watching someone get the jump on you with their 1980s rossignols wedged in front of yours is having them yell “hola avila, ven aqui” right in your ear at the top of their lungs.  “cierra la boca!!!!”

5.  9 times out of 10 go for the edges

really squaw?  you’re only letting 3 people at a time up the 4 person lift on the busiest day of the year?  REALLY?  sorry, bottom-line, you’re better off on the edges b/c it’s a lot easier to move the 5 oz PVC piping a little to the right creating the effect you’re in line than it is the 300lb boarder who somehow has a jacket stuffed with PBR tallboys

by the time we got down broken arrow, up squaw one and made our way 300yds to siberia it was 12:15, time for one last run before meeting up with Christina.  for those keeping score at home;

hours of skiing:  3+
runs:  2.5

despite that atrocious ratio above the lap down broken arrow made everything worth it.  all it takes is a few turns of thigh high fluff (and with snow piled so high that the funitel was dragging on the ground, fluff we got) and you’ve forgetten how you wanted to wrap your pole around avila’s neck. 

until you realize that your gf got 5x as many runs as you b/c ski school skips the lines.  F



funitel = gondola, line at 9:15am



*a big thank you to christina for making these pictures extra funny and cool.

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.