Functionally ReTodded

Functionally ReTodded is not dead or missing like “famed” aviator idiot Steve Fossett. I have simply been busier than a one legged dude at an ass-kicking contest.

I’ve learned several things over the last week or so regarding home improvement, travel, golf and other stuff.

First, always listen to your wife about improving the house. I didn’t come close to picking our tile or paint or fixtures (including my pool table light) and the wife pops into the Orange store for 35 minutes and gets the table light and some other fixtures after agreeing on the tile with the tile guy (which was totally different than what GBD and I had picked) and despite my fears, it turned out great.

Also, she was the one who wanted tile all over the basement instead of carpet, and it looks absolutely amazing that way.

As travel goes, I learned that unlike earlier in our farrowing years, the infant is NOT the issue on car trips of lengths anywhere from 8 miles to 350 miles. It turns out that the other two can ruin it by asking sixty gojillion times “Are we in Suwanee yet?” or the other one wanting whatever I am eating / drinking and then not really wanting it. Bleck. Our trip out of town Saturday morning should have taken 3 hours and 15 minutes and it took over 4 and a half hours.

I got to play the TPC at Piper Glen in Charlotte for the first time ever and for the first time, I was NOT in my pocket on a TPC course and actually finished the round.

I have now played three rounds of golf in three years (and that’s been three rounds since May) and I still can’t break 100, which is my singular goal every time I step on to a golf course.
Now I know you shouldn’t expect much playing that seldom, but DAMMIT it makes me mad to shoot 101.

On our Hilton Head outing at Hilton Head National with my step-dad, I managed to shoot 101 despite having walking pneumonia. This weekend, I hit a few decent shots on the range and took it to the first tee.

Weather was perfect, especially for Labor Day weekend, and I step to the first tee (a middle length par four) and was fully prepared (and encouraged by my stepdad) to hit a second ball by having two extras in my pocket.

Instead, I striped a three-iron about 230 or so down the center. Surprised, we headed out for our second shots.

I stood over the ball and hit a sweet seven-iron to the center of the green. Bill and I looked at each other and both thought “Wow. How did that happen?”

On to the green we go, where I proceed to two putt for par (but set the tone for the day by leaving my birdie put about 8 inches short of the cup).

So there I am, walking off the first green at a TPC course with a par on my scorecard (and a GIR and a two putt to boot), and I jokingly said “I should go home now.”

And I probably should have.

To be fair, I played decently, but GOD DAMMIT, there is no excuse to leave birdie and par putts short when your best score will probably be a 90-95. I’m pretty sure I left between ten and twelve putts short of the hole, and half of them were on the right line.

I finished the front shooting the number of the beast: 6-6-6 for a god damned 51.

Now, I’m thinking to myself “I played smart (mostly), managed my game well (mostly) and didn’t try any shots outside of realistic expectations, and I’m one over my break even point. I’m getting tired, I know I’ll be exhausted by the end, and I need 48 on the back to break 100.

I think I could have done it too if I could have gotten a hot dog at the turn. However, the kitchen was closed for some reason, so I had to settle for Powerade and Smokehouse cheddar Lance crackers.

I continued on more or less as I had been playing, but I got a little wilder on the back.  I got to the 17th, a picturesque downhill par-3, with 40 on my card to that point.  So I knew  that I needed to finish 3-6 or 4-5 to shoot 49 and at least hit 100.

I hit a smoove 9-iron dead at the pin.  Even got it to back up a little.  I left myself four feet for birdie.  “Holy shit!” I thought.  If I drop that, I can shoot 99 with a bogey six on the last.

I stood over the putt confidently and struck it dead at the cup.  And left it four inches short.  Par.

FUCK!!!

We ride over to 18, and instead of having a positive feeling about myself after parring a hole, I was pissed at myself.  I took a break to take a couple pictures of Ric Flair’s house off to the right of the 18th tee box, but surpressed the urge to run inside and beg him to marry me.

I hit a worm burner off the tee, chunked my second about fifty yards, pushed a nine right and long, chunked the pitch into the bunker short, left the next in the same bunker, got the next one out, and two putted. For seven.

101.

A hundred and freaking one.

GAH!!!!

But, in defense of my round, I had a great time, I watched my step-dad (who’s 70) shoot eighty freaking three from the whites and that included have no less than half a dozen lipout putts.  He could have EASILY broken 80, which ain’t bad for a 13 handicap.

(Personally, I have at least 13 handicaps when I get out of the car AT the golf course).

I look forward to returning to Charlotte and playing again and hopefully finding a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of personal victory and shoot 101 again.

and if you can’t handle one daddy blog every so often, then you can blow me.

As many of you know, I left a week ago Sunday for a difficult tw0-week business trip to Palo Alto.  While a difficult assignment to accept given the recent changes to my family (you know, the increase in feedable mouthes by 50%), GBD and I decided that it was the right thing to do given my current contract employee status at the greatest company ever on the planet.

So I up and left Sunday night, and went about the business of being the shining star of my company on my visit to our West Coast division, and the wife was supportive and upbeat and if she wasn’t, she was putting up a good front.

So fast forward to this past Friday.  GBD calls me and tells me that she had something to tell me.  She hadn’t wanted to worry me while I was three thousand miles away, but since I left, young 3doh had started having diarrhea, not sleeping, and eventually had noticable (look out now) blood in his stool and bleeding from “that” area.

After consulting with a few of the gynosauruses she’s friends with online, she decided it was food-related and took him to the doctor.  They told her that his C-Diff was high (as if anyone knew what that was).  The doctor advised her to take 3doh to Scotish Rite’s ER, which she did.  She also called me on the way, all apologetic.

It seems that basically everyone at home had known what was going on, but she’d kept it to herself and soldiered on, not wanting to worry or upset me.  Simply amazing.

Once I assured her that I wasn’t angry or mad or anything, we decided to take it a day at a time and see what happened, and if arrangements for me to get home needed to be made, they would be made after a discussion between us and the doctors.

3doh was admitted Friday afternoon, meaning  my mom would have to come over to the house to stay with 1doh and 2doh whilst GBD stayed at Scottish Rite with 3doh.  GBD’s middle sis also came down to stay with GBD overnight, which I know was appreciated.

The next day, PK was released and put on some hardcore antibiotics to fight what he had.  It seemed that his NICU stay had mixed results, given that the bacteria that were causing the issues now were related to the antibiotics he got when he was a couple of days old.  So now he’s on a month worth of antibiotics to fight what was the result of the antibiotics he got before now.  Complicated, no?

3doh was discharged Saturday afternoon, and middle sister took 1doh  for a movie that morning, then to spend the night that night.  Very very helpful.  Especially given that PK didn’t sleep much more than two hours in the hospital and would only sleep that much or less the next night at home.  GBD was exhausted, had been worried for days, and kept it to herself so she wouldn’t distract me from work.

I think we could all count on one hand (and maybe one finger) the number of people that would endure all of that alone just to keep another from worrying.

Luckily, the lad will be okay.  He gets this antibiotic three times a day for two weeks, twice a day for one week and once a day for one week.  He also was put on a formula called Augmentin or something, which I’m fairly certain is a Greek word meaning 25 bucks a quart or some such nonsense.  But it’s a small price to pay to have my boy and my wife rested, healthy and happy.

And just so you know, not that I’m counting, but I’ll be home in about 92 hours.