Food hoarder disorder

I don’t eat leftovers. My wife thinks she does, but in fact, she only collects leftovers. All leftovers. No portion is too small or insignificant not to be “Tuppered” (new word). I should have known, looking at her vast army of Tupperware early on, that there was an issue. I ignored the small voice in my head that whispered, “Danger Will Robinson, danger!”

Further warning came when, after one of our first dinners, I began to scrape the orts from my dish and she scolded me sharply. “Are you throwing that away?!”

I paused, looked down, looked up at her face, and finally said sarcastically, “I’m sorry, whatever was I thinking?” Imagine, I had already forced myself to eat two of the four Brussels sprouts on my plate. The idea of saving the last two little fuckers would never have crossed my mind. Vegetables are not my favorite food—so sue me.

I remember back then I thought the light had gone out in her fridge and then realized every shelf was packed with cartons, packages … and Tupperware. The light wasn’t out; the fridge was just so packed the light was useless! It was like looking into a miniature pre-dawn picture of Tokyo.

Saving a salad made a month earlier means to me there should be some couch-time consideration and maybe some good meds!  Nothing was dated (not that it would have made much of a difference to me). I don’t regard leftovers highly, but I was curious: What’s back there, back where the light illuminates itself? I looked both ways and began disassembling the tiny community before me. There was a light at the end of the shelf, and right next to it was a suspicious container with a slightly red tinge to the contents. I lifted the container and noted it seemed heavier than I thought it should be. The rubber top teased and dared my curiosity, and then it threatened my resolve about the whole matter. Suddenly I was Steve McQueen being chased through that supermarket by a massive mountain of breathing strawberry jelly anxious to consume me! Hey! Maybe that’s it! She’s afraid to open them! Yeah, that’s it!

That’s not it.

I quickly replaced and reassembled the condiment community, slammed the door, and found my back pressing against it. Part of me was actually waiting for some inner movement to indicate an effort to escape. 
So she’s hiding a food-hoarder disorder! Could be worse, right? Right??

Lyle's Day!

Lyle caught fish after fish after fish—more than a dozen that I counted. Bass, bluegill, shark, sturgeon, steelhead, perch, eel, and smelt—all visited his line (or so he said). Coach and I just nodded as he told his tale. We can vouch for the bass and the bluegill. The other "visitors" take some imagination.

It was wearying to watch his casts with his fly-fish pole and to hear him yell, "Fish on!" over and over. I half expected him to start breakdancing after each release. I was using pretty much the same lure, the losing lure after trying worms. I felt so foolish after Coach and I dug and dug yesterday, muddied up, to garner worms so small we weren't sure they could be baited on even the smallest hook.  

I was over there and then over there, moving in different spots, consistently unsuccessful. Coach had to share the ladies’-tee perch with Lyle, and we had to witness live the constant reeling-in of his catches. He would later admit he had wished social distancing were 50 yards, not 6! To his credit (and so, so Coach), Coach tried every bait and lure in his four tackle boxes. He even tried hooking a picture of a worm on a hook. He had salmon eggs, ham and eggs, and leftover Easter eggs. Tried ’em all. No shame showed on his face, and, as he cast each hope, he mimicked that thing Barry Bonds does at home plate after a home run: you know, when he gestures from his lips to the heavens. That didn't work either.

Okay, so Lyle left a bit taller today—his swagger, earned. The Hat ruled and I tip mine to him!

        Notice Lyle behind Coach giving advice and encouragement!

Here Lyle assures Coach he can't catch the virus from his shadow!

Here Coach is laughing and happy because the fish took his bait!  I had that same elation a few times. (How pathetic we were)

Here is The Fisherman looking across the pond at Riva stretched out on his lawn chair. 

The water hazard

                      When you realize you just don't have enough club ...

The Ace that never happened!

The morning tee was filled with talk about the direction of the infection, the detection.

No election, reflection, correction, nor recession conversation followed the first fairway. On hole number seven our attention was demanded as Dalhed’s wedge landed past the pin and gradually wandered back at the cup like a lost orphan. It bit and made its slow retreat back at the cup.

I crossed my orange-Cheetoed fingers as the ball continued to tease toward the hole. There’s always some clown who yells, “Go in the hole!” Today I was Bonzo. I yelled—the men on the 8th tee rushed to see the retreating ball. Back, back, back—it came to a stop an inch from the cup!

I instantly realized that Sam Dalhed had committed some ungodly act in a past life. I suddenly saw him as one of the Black Sox, the scout on the Donner Party, or Snidely Whiplash! Some kind of massive karma had risen up on the seventh green to yell, “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” No, that was actually me.

Remarkable shot, a superb shot!  (See the pics)

I was plagued all day with Fred’s putting, chipping, and driving.  Those silly shots he makes from off the green that go bip-bop-stop! Bip this, Yoda!

                                                         Sam's remarkable shot!

Whoa!

I guess the windshield really doesn't do much to prevent injury!

We saw this parked when we returned the cart.

Ode to three-putt days

(prompted by a day where we all suffered a familiar malady)




To be read or sung to "Yesterday"

Yesterday, all my three-putts seemed so far away,
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh I despise these three-putt days!

Suddenly, even putts that seem so clear to me,
End up being that damn number three,
Oh, I can’t hide from 1-2-3.

Why do I putt for dough,
When I know I just can’t play?
I send the putt too long,
Know it’s wrong— they look away.

Yesterday, all my three-putts seemed so far away,
Now it seems as though they’re here to stay,
Oh, there’s no place to hide away.

Sam, Coach begin to crow,
Say they know, there’ll come a day,
I say it just seems wrong,
It’s too long, my feet are clay!

Yesterday, golf was such an easy game to play ...
Now I need some wings to fly away,
Just can’t stand one more three-putt day!

Coach’s Water Ball!

I think I can speak for most us when I say that dares, challenges, and risks have become events we would rather watch than participate in anymore. That is, of course, unless the challenge is a simple one, like having a second slice of pie, exploring channels, reading instructions … No, scratch that—I don’t like being told “how,” and certainly not in Chinese or French, or by that ridiculous image of a man actually acting out the fucking instructions. Alas, I digress …


So let’s get back to the challenge thing.


Hole 16:  Coach is not having a “Coach” day. I’m secretly loving it because he’s usually the Stagecoach and I’m usually his dust.  He slices his second shot and it appears to be a water ball. (See picture: see Raggio smile, see that the ball is half—if not more—in the pond, loosely supported by leaves, algae, grass, and frog shit.)

Coach examines the ball, and there is a hesitation, a pause. I sense a wild possibility. I look over at Sam and say, “I think it’s playable.” Coach does not see my eyes roll. Sam quickly agrees. (We think we’re talking him into something he’s already made up his mind about.)

By the way, I miss the old Sam; this philosophical Sam is playing way too well, pissing me off. I liked him better when he was playing dueling Sputniks with Dick! (More digression.)

Okay, so when I see that Coach has decided to go hero, I rush to get my camera. Unfortunately, it misbehaved, and for some reason recorded the event in super speed. I was, however, able to break down the film into the important frames.   

This is the ball. Notice the yellow contrast against the pond scum. I see the ball and think about the ponds that produce that flesh-eating disease there is no cure for. Coach does not see what I see.

                                Coach assessing his swing

Note the force of the splash. Note the tiny yellow orb exiting the water!  

Note the golfer being rained on by the various elements he has tossed into the air with the ball.

Now check out the way the pond is still absorbing falling drops of water, and the golfer (Coach) is hollering his success at the ball. He’s sopped. Sam and I are threatening to wet ourselves. You just have to admire a man who wouldn’t tap out wrestling Goliath!


P.S. The ball indeed left the pond and made it to the fairway. Had there been grownups watching, golf claps would have been generously furnished. Instead, the cackling pair next to him were drying their eyes!