EDITOR'S NOTE: Bad Boyfriend has later been revealed to be Nick Asshat as I have written more about him.
I was asked recently to tell one of my more embarrassing moments. There are so many . . . this is the one I chose. Please, don’t hate me because I’m a potty mouth (only occasionally and usually when REALLY pressed).
I was dating my last Bad Boyfriend (before meeting Mr. Right). Bad Boyfriend called me at work one Sunday to ask if I would go golfing with him. I don’t golf. Seems all three of the guys he asked to golf had backed out. Would I go, and just walk the course with him? Of course! "Meet me at Quackers, and we'll go from there," he said.
When I got to the pub, there was Bad Boyfriend, along with all three of the golf partners, who had somehow managed to make it. Okay, now I didn't want to go along, since I didn't know these other guys, I don't golf, and I was no longer necessary. But Bad Boyfriend tried to talk me into it.
“Look,” I said, “Those guys aren’t gonna want a girl around. What if they want to swear? Or scratch? Or talk about women? Or scratch some more?”
“No no!” he countered. “Guys love to have women around while they golf. Makes them try harder and show off a bit.” I kept arguing, but he kept insisting. Almost begging. Really weird. Kinda flattering though . . . okay, I'll go.
While these guys usually chose to walk the course rather than to rent a golf cart, this time the cart was necessary because one of the foursome, Mike, had brought TWO -- I said TWO -- cases of beer for the outing. CASES, not 12-packs, which would still be quite excessive. For four guys, I kid you not. So I rode on the golf cart, enjoyed the sun, and was quiet as a mouse. Hey, I know to be quiet around golfers –- I’ve heard the whispering TV golf commentators. I was quiet.
UNTIL . . .
Mike, the guy with all the beer, got stinking drunk (big surprise) and he
1) jumped into the driver's seat and took off with me on the cart, up a hill, then down -- fast, faster, UH OH -- CRASH! onto a footbridge. I was almost thrown from the cart, and I banged my knee pretty hard. The golf cart was left apparently undamaged, but was suspended in mid-air on this little footbridge, wheels spinning.
2) found a snake and was intent on making me like the snake, and
3) sneaked up behind me on the golf cart (I was on foot now –- wasn't going anywhere near that cart and Mike) and stuck his arm out, snake loosely wrapped around it. When I looked up there was a snake in my face, and neither of us were happy.
I came unglued.
I screamed an obscenity at the top of my lungs, something to the tune of "GET THE *&^% AWAY FROM ME!!!" It takes SO much to make me lose my cool in public, or at least to bring out the longshoreman in me, but it had been achieved that afternoon.
I watched as golfers #2 and #3 turned and walked off to the next hole. I instantly felt like a jerk. I mean, here I was, trying to be so quiet and respectful of this ancient and serious game, and I end up screaming the F-bomb near the clubhouse. I was mortified.
Bad Boyfriend didn't really even notice. Drunken Mike was later SO upset by his appalling behavior that he apologized to me about 50 times the next time I saw him. I think he even bought me flowers. Golfer #2 shrugged off the whole affair.
Golfer #3 married me.