I really must stop writing about last week's Equinox adventure because apparently I am supposed to let go of the past and think of the future – even though that recent chunk of past was way more fun than where it appears this potholed-riddled road is taking me now. And besides, by now GM may have figured out that I pick my nose while driving and found the speeding ticket in the glove box. Before I let go of the privileged past, with its cruising around moneyed Muskoka in a once-pristine 2010 Equinox – can I just mention how excruciatingly painful it is to play 18 holes of golf, even in paradise.
18 mandatory holes – while the soft part of my recent adventure – took decades, not counting the only fun time spent frolicking in the cool, shady bushes looking for rich men's balls and a poison ivy-free place to empty my bladder of Schmirnoff Ice. That drink cart girl is really aggressive.
Adding insult to my annoyance that I could be sitting on the dock reading the paper, sipping coffee laced with liqueur, was that I was golfing with keeners. Maybe you know the type: sober, anal-retentive control freaks in corrective shoes, brandishing iron sticks that cost more than an hour of therapy, which is where they should really be investing their money. The only entertainment was ignoring all of their helpful (annoying as fuck) hints and whacking the shit out of the ball like Happy Gilmore – especially when my dirty, no-name ball went farther and straighter than either of their precious Callaways at 5 bucks a pop.
Oh, and god forbid you should whisper or guffaw while they are taking their endless practice swings. Ask me not to talk or laugh at any given moment and I am suddenly faced with uncontrollable fits of insuppressible howls. Golf is just so damn ridiculous – worse than church for the insanity of it all. A lush playground for escaped belly laughs.
Having said that, and being the thoughtful person that I am, I've gathered a few time-saving golf tips to get you off of the links and back on the road:
First of all, the practice swing. Big waste of time. Step up to the plate and swing goddammit. This isn't a dress rehearsal. Man up and dive in.
Putting. Big waste of time. If your ball lands anywhere in the same postal code as the hole – pick it up and move on. There are a million more holes just like that one, and there's some asshole named Dr. Dickwad and his party of four chomping at the bit to get their round over with, so they can suck back G&T's on the dock of their 2.5 million dollar "cottage".
Oh, and my favourite waste of time – keeping score. Unless you're Tiger Woods, leave the little pencil back in the clubhouse with the $400 bucks you just slapped down to be more bored than Bin Laden in a cable-free cave.
I couldn't wait to get off the stinking hot golf course and back on our air-conditioned road trip. Since they don't take kindly to anyone wading in the water hazards, Jack and I stopped for a swim in the lake, leaving us short on time to get the Equinox back to Toronto on schedule. Let's just say we hauled ass.
I fear little when driving these days because I have recently accepted the fact that I am old, merely by possessing a CAA membership. Prior to my eye-opening dalliance with the new and improved CAA, my only experience with the old bastion of roadside assistance was the TripTik my mother used to order before we headed out on a dreaded family road trip. Back then, children were forced to sit in the station wagon's backseat, with the flatulent family poodle and without seat belts, Ritalin, or DVD players – while parents, who hated one another, chain smoked furiously in the front seat. Inevitably, an argument would break out about which exit to take, forcing my mother to butt-out and unravel her TripTik with the magic marker line wending it's way across the folded pages, eventually leading us to our destination, and a motel pool I could finally release my Dr. Pepper into.
Today, hip CAA members can practically buy crack at a discount just by flashing their plastic CAA card. Motel rooms, vacations, pizzas, Pete's Frootique, White Point, Disney, eyeglasses, hell, even hookers accept CAA. In fact, I have life insurance purchased through CAA, so if I croak shortly after getting hit in the head by a golf ball, drinks are on me.
I'll leave you now with a little quote from Happy Gilmore: "Golf requires goofy pants and a fat ass. You should talk to my neighbor, the accountant. Probably a great golfer... huge ass."
And a little quote from my son and wingman, Jack, " Mom, what does O.P.P. stand for?"
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Test drive an Equinox at your local Chevy dealer.
To find out more about the new and improved CAA check out their website at: www.caa.ca
