Putt-putt

I am generally a good sport. I am terrible at most sports but can have a grand time when with good company. I love bowling, though I average about 40 points per game. I have developed a love for hiking, though I am winded 15 minutes in and am really slow. I can even enjoy an afternoon at the driving range, though every ball I hit manages to bounce a few times before even leaving the gate. What I can’t handle is a game of putt-putt.

Miniature golfing is stupid. I remember as a kid liking and hating putt-putt at the same time. As an adult, I am finally able to recognize it for what it is: an annoying humiliation.

Andy took me miniature golfing for one of our first dates. I warned him that I was a poor sport and would not be much fun but I promised to give it a try. After getting our stupid little sticks and our stupid little balls, I took my pretty pink ball and threw it right into the stream. I looked at Andy and said, “It will end up there anyway,” with a shrug. He obtained a new ball and the game began.

Andy became increasingly frustrated with me as I met his helpful putting hints with disdain and threats. He tried to teach me good putting form; I preferred either whacking the ball as hard as I could or dragging the ball with my stick directly to the hole. Eventually, he gave up and laughed at my shenanigans.

That was almost 7 years ago. We haven't been since.

I’m not sure what it is about miniature golf (and board games) that makes me such a poor sport. I can’t think it’s because I’m bad at it—I’ve demonstrated above that I’m bad at a lot of things I enjoy. It might be the jolly little courses that mock you as you fail. Who knows.

Happy Gilmore knows what I'm talking about.

Most. Embarrassing. Moment. Ever.

We chose Lugano as the venue for our 2 year wedding anniversary celebration. Lugano holds many special memories for us and is one of the best meals you can get in Salt Lake City. I made the reservation last week and we anxiously looked forward to what would be an undoubtedly amazing meal.

I picked up a dress at Urban Outfitters last month (80% off!) and have been looking for an occasion to wear it. What better time than for an elegant dinner to celebrate our anniversary?

Monday rolled around and we spent the day relaxing and enjoying each other’s company (minus the one hour it took to renew my driver’s license and the DMV). At 6 PM, we began primping for our dinner date. I put on my new cute dress, my awesome wedding shoes (in honor of the day), and the earrings Andy brought me from Spain. I put on some make up, whipped up my hair, and was content because I looked super hot.

We went to the restaurant and had a great dining experience. We started with wine/beer and salads (Andy- arugula salad, Me-baby spinach salad), moved to our main course (Andy- short ribs, me- risotto of the day), and sadly declined dessert as we thought we would burst.

After arriving back at home, I took off my coat and began unbuckling my shoes. At that moment, I put my hand over my backside and felt skin. I stood up, mortified. I ran my hand along the back of the dress and found that the entire seam from waist band to skirt was non-existent, exposing my bare bottom. With wide eyes I thought through the evening, trying to remember any time I had felt a pop or a tear, anytime I had added extra strain to the seam. Nothing came to mind. I ran to Andy.

“How long has my dress been like this?!?” I screamed with utter horror.

“Hunh. I don’t know,” said Andy. “I didn’t notice it.”

“Oh. My. Goodness. I bet I mooned everyone in the restaurant!”

I removed the dress and inspected the two foot tear. Yep. This wasn’t a tear from too much stress on a seam. This was a stitching error. It looked like it was never stitched in the first place. Then it made sense—the dress was 80% off. I never noticed the gaping hole on the back side.

Happy Anniversary.