On vacation in Florida, my FIL and I played alot of golf. I usually took my son with us (next Tiger Woods and all, you know). My doughter, all of 3 or 4 at the time, asked if she could go one time. Not being a sexist father, and not caring which of my kid’s superstar salary supports me in my old age, I said “Sure”.
Sure enough, playing the hole farthest from the clubhouse, daughter says “Daddy, I gotta go potty!”. Understand that most golf courses do not provide porta-potties. Actually, they do. They’re called “the woods”. A drive back to the clubhouse means a 20-30 minute delay, and upon return your group has to somehow slide in between the other groups who were behind you. All to take care of a 30 second task.
I told my daughter that she could go behind a tree, which actually excited her no end - “I get to pee outside? COOL!”. I forget that pleasure is predominately reserved for the male of the species. After explaining to her that she would need to completely remove her pants (I thought that squatting and aiming around a bunch of clothes at her ankles would be more than she could handle), she said “OK, but where is the toilet paper?”. Hm, good question! Sorry, but most guys don’t carry TP or moist towelettes on a golf outing. There’s not even a compartment for that kind of stuff on most golf bags. A quick inventory revealed an old, reletively clean golf towel. I instructed her to use the towel and just leave it in the woods (now you’ll think twice about picked up that “lost” golf towel, won’t you?).
She went joyfully off to do her business while FIL (who was enjoying this predicament a little too much) and I played our next shot. Predictably, the course marshall, out making his rounds, came into view at exactly the same time my daughter emerged from the woods. She was skipping. Gleefully. Naked from the waist down. Clothes in one hand, a golf towel in the other. Screaming over and over “I DID IT, DADDY! I WENT PEE-PEE IN THE WOODS!”. I had visions of being asked to leave the course, if not the State, until I glanced in the direction of the marshall. Poor guy was laughing so hard he nearly wrecked his golf cart. He never even slowed down as he passed.
sigh It’s just so much easier to raise a male.
Sig! Sig a Sog! Sig it loud! Sig it Strog! – Karen Carpenter with a head cold