Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, April 6, 1995 TAG: 9504070003
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BETH MACY
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
The annual spring squabble among the sexes at Blue Hills Golf Club.
"Blown out of proportion," insists club pro Johnny King. "All a rumor-type thing. . . . It's just like government: You get one guy saying he's gonna do all these things, and he can't do nothin'."
The end result may back the status quo, but the perennial rumor that male members intend to quash Tuesday-morning Ladies' Day, when women get preferential tee times, has sliced membership right down the middle, with the women wedged onto one side of the fairway and the men putted into the sand trap of political incorrectness.
In the words of one player, "The ladies are mad as a wet hen."
King says he backs the women's right to Ladies' Day, on account of "every day is men's day."
The decision ultimately lies with the club's board of directors, which will consider the men's proposal the week after next. "But they're too smart to" do away with Ladies' Day, King says.
Some of the men, mostly retirees, believe the women play slower and hold up their games. "They're afraid every hole may be their last, so they're gonna get in as much golf as they can," King says of the men.
A chip - er, cheap - shot, in my view. But then that's par for the course.
(STOP ME BEFORE I MAKE PUN AGAIN!)
My mom calls to tell me not to forget to set my clock forward an hour. This prompts our semi-annual "Will it get dark earlier or later?" debate, as well as the question, "Will it be harder or easier to stay up to watch David Letterman?"
These are trivial matters, compared to the fact that my mom finds it necessary to notify me about daylight savings time, from two states away - as if the time-change phenomenon originates in Ohio and then filters down haphazardly to my remote cave in Virginia.
There's something comforting about the call, though, a maternal looking-out. It reminds me of the way she used to hold my bangs back when I'd get sick over the toilet as a child, and of her nightly reminders to put my bike up on the back porch.
The return of garage-sale season, which brings me to my No. 1 pet signage peeve, a phenomenon I call "garage-sale quotation marks."
Note excessive use of apostrophes and quotation marks in this example: "Yard Sale" Sat., 9 - 1. "Antiques," children's' clothes and Avon's samples. NO "early" calls.
Even worse, these signs frequently clutter the telephone poles for weeks after the last warped Boston album was sold. Which can mess you up if you're a garage-sale regular - or you happen to be driving behind one.
Instead of signs for yard sales, the posters should read: "Beware of Yard-Sale Drivers." And keep your eyes on those brake lights.
Speaking of sales, my mom was recently passing through my hometown, where she spotted the 1975 hit album, the soundtrack to "Let's Do It Again," a Bill Cosby-Sidney Poitier-Jimmie Walker (``Dy-no-MITE") production.
The record was on sale at the local flea market for $1 - and she bought it because it had 11-year-old Beth Macy's signature scrawled across the cover.
"I'm thinking of selling it back to you for two dollars," she said.
And finally, some thoughts on spring fashion, namely: QUIT PICKING ON ME ABOUT MY DREADFUL NEW COLUMN-LOGO PICTURE!
I knew I was in trouble when I showed up at the studio that drizzly morning and my friendly photographer said, "You might consider brushing your hair. It's kinda . . . frizzy."
The crack editing team at this newspaper spent an entire news-analysis session weighing the merits of my old picture (deep critique, guys). My mom claimed, "It doesn't look like you - something funny about your mouth." And V Magazine bashed me for dyeing out my gray hair, which is slanderous, and quite obviously, a lie.
Only my husband approached the matter with any sense at all. Asked what he thought about the photo, he refused to comment.
by CNB