This evening, for the first time ever, I went to a driving range and hit golf balls. Richard's friend invited us out to give it a whirl. This was a surprisingly great time considering I always had the notion that only very old rich men wearing funny looking pants and hats went to the driving range. These men always have very nasally sounding voices in my notions.
The first joyous spectacle of the evening took place when we decided to purchase a small basket of golf balls from a machine in front of the pro shop. Little did we know the basket must be under the golf-ball-dispenser-thingy immediately after hitting the button or golf balls will scatter every which way.
Oh. How. They. Scattered.
To add to the chaos the place was having some sort of Hawaiian luau theme, so there are balls tittering around the ground, pouring out this hole in the machine, and women garbed in grass skirts and tropical tops carrying various Hawaiian instruments. The basket was hastily applied once the initial jaw dropping moment fizzled.
It was on to the range! Here must give myself a pat on the back for not slamming the club into the ground with an arm reverberating swing and actually hitting the ball within the limits (mostly) of where it needed to go. Once we hit a couple baskets worth, we headed to the putting area.
Much wind whipped hair and many missed putts later, I felt a big fat raindrop fall on my head. Then another. Then a whole lot more. Within the time we threw the putting balls into the bag of clubs we were quite damp. We made a mad dash to the parking lot (of course Rich parked in the very back) and were completely soaked through by the time we were in the truck. Holy mother I love when it rains. The cherry on top of a very enjoyable evening. There was the monsoon weather we were waiting for; it was just saving up for a big show.