Foozle Ball

I subscribe to Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day e-mails (shut up), and when I opened my in-box this morning, I was greeted with joy and fuzzy bunnies and butterflies in the form of my new favorite word ever:

foozle \FOO-zul\ verb
: to manage or play awkwardly : bungle
Example sentence:
Carl thought he had an easy putt lined up for a birdie, but instead he foozled the shot and hooked the ball to the left.

Also, have you ever read a better sample sentence in your life? And I don't even like golf references! They're overused! They make it impossible to buy a greeting card for your father if you've already bought him a golf one! But I'll be damned if I don't want to hit the links (play a round? putt a fore? whatever) just so I can foozle it.

I'm not in the habit of quoting Rosie O'Donnell, but the one thing she said that I've always remembered was when she was doing the VH1 Half-Hour Comedy Hour (shut up), and she said something to the extent of, "Golf is men in bad pants, walking." Josh once told me that his parents signed him up for tennis lessons because they thought knowing how to play would be good for his future in business (they actually wanted him to be a lawyer, so I'm sure they were over the moon when he started his own record label when he was in college). I listened to this story, paused, and then said, "Tennis? But you can't talk during a game of tennis, except about the tennis game. Business deals are what golf is for. That's the whole purpose of golf. Why didn't they sign you up for golf lessons?"

"They wanted me to play tennis."

"Yes, but golf."

I have one good memory of playing golf, though I didn't exactly play it, per se. My friend Jon loves to play golf. He's good at it, which is fitting, since the house he grew up in practically sits on top of a beautiful, lush course. One night while we were on break from college, we got bored (of course; suburbia), so we grabbed a bottle of vodka, some weed (hey, kids! don't do drugs!), some golf clubs and a ball, and Jon took me out to the green behind his house to teach me to play. It was a perfect summer night in Michigan, around midnight, and the moon was huge. Despite his valiant efforts, Jon's lessons were useless to me because I'm a crappy golf player. It took about three strokes before my ball landed in a sand trap, and Jon waited patiently while I diligently batted at it without actually hitting it. I was determined to get it the bollocks out of there, but I couldn't even hit it an inch in any direction, never mind propel it airborne. I was terrible. Not long afterward, one of us must have just picked up the ball and put it back on the green (I'm sure I barked, "This game sucks!"), the sprinklers went off, we played a little bit more despite the sprinklers going off, and then headed back to his house, drunk and wet (shut up), no more accomplished at the game than we were when we started that night. It was great, great fun — and it's a testament to what a loose night it was, as well as to my growth as an individual, that I didn't try to make out with Jon that night despite the presence of vodka, which always turned me into a raging whore and is the number one reason why I don't drink anymore. I don't know why I just told you that.

Anyway, golf.

As far as I see it, golf is a sport played for two reasons: 1) because it's a good way to do business without the pressure and intimidation of an office or conference-room setting; and 2) because the sole point of each game is to try to play better than you did last time — not to get the ball in the holes (dirty!) or to perfect your arc or anything, but just to suck less. Many have spent dedicated hours of their lives attempting to suck less at various skills, and golf is a manifestation of just one of those efforts. I suppose you could say the same for any sport, but with golf, I fail to see the fun part of it that I identify in other sports. The game itself doesn't really matter: It's the furious attempt to get it right that keeps people walking in bad pants for hours at a pop. It's why I walk away from every miniature golf course angry, every single time, as if we needed more reasons to be angry at pirates. Gah, pirates.

Random But Not Really Thought #1: Getting back to sample sentences, my other favorite one is from high school French class. We used to do worksheets while following along with tapes. In one multiple-choice section, you had to pick the sentence that didn't fit with the others. My favorite sentence was, "Eh! Pompiste! Fait le plein!" Which translates loosely as, "Hey! Fireman! Fill the tank!"

Totally Random Thought #1: Two nights ago, I got home from work to-the-bone tired. Whenever we walk into the house, the cats drop to the floor onto their backs so we can rub their bellies. (I know!) I dropped down to play with them, found myself on a spot above some pipes so that area of the floor was toasty warm, and I fell asleep. On my kitchen floor. After about 20 minutes or so, I woke up and immediately realized that if I stayed there, Josh would come home and the first thing he'd see would be my legs sticking out from behind the kitchen counter, seemingly lifeless. I quickly got up and planted myself on the couch for Supernap Round 2, so as not to give my husband a heart attack by thinking I was dead. Oy.

The kittens are getting spayed today. I'm festering, all worried-mama, though I know it's a routine procedure. I hope the fur on their bellies grows back the same after it's been shaved, because it's striped and I want to smoosh it. In the event they have to wear those cones on their heads, I shall take photos and post them, for your amusement.