I'm a golf pro. Deal with it.

I went golfing tonight.  And by "golfing" I mean "sitting in the cart and drinking beer while Hubby and our friends golfed" because I don't golf. 

How people could voluntarily expose themselves to utter frustration and pain by trying to use a long stick to hit a tiny little ball hundreds of metres down a giant green field, I will NEVER understand. 

So instead, I volunteered to drive the cart.  And get the beers. 

Here.  I drew it for you. 

This is Hubby and our friends teeing off. 
That pink ball is Hubby's. 
Just kidding. 
But that is him wearing his aviators. 
Except he shoots all wonky.  A righty lefty. 

And this is me.  In my cart.  Supervising. 

Then I took some pictures. 
Boredom was setting in. 
It had been one hole. 

Me, running to catch the beer cart. 
WAIT! HELP ME!

Me, drinking my beer, paying no attention whatsoever to the golfers. 

Me, tweeting. 
Telling stories about that time Hubby tried to fake out his buddies while driving the cart. 
Except he faked too far and ended up driving the fucking thing into the waterhole. 
Apparently the best part was his popping up shouting "HELP ME!" to his buddies.
So they could help him yank the cart out of the lake. 
Nice one, Hubby.

Me, hunting for long-lost golf balls. 
Just for the pure thrill of it. 
And constantly being reminded to stay out of the line of fire of people actually playing golf on the golf course. 

The four of us eating dinner.
Hubby stewing a bit about his game. 
Me trying to ignore all golf talk entirely. 

And apparently we all became zombies.