FORE!!!

We went to the beach.

Wined and dined and did what I wanted to do all weekend long.

Sunday afternoon it was Seth's turn.

After a quick change of clothes and wild goose chase to find the local disc golf course, my Southern Charmer introduced me to one of his favorite pastimes: disc golf.

Not to be confused with mini golf. Which I am confident is played in hell.

If you've been brave enough to enter a putt putt palace with me, you'll know the temper tantrum is inevitable. I'm on my 12th attempt to get the ball in the hole, cussin up a storm under my breath, wielding my putter like it's a dangerous weapon. I figured since disc golf utilizes frisbees I'd be safe. 

Lucky for Seth, my disc golf skills are a bit better than my mini golf skills and he didn't have to witness an Amy meltdown. 

But it wasn't my lack of skills so to say that had me running away from hole 6, pulling Seth towards the van with the proclamation of, "I'm done. I'm hot. I'm hungry. Let's go home."

It was the frog. And the poison ivy. And the potential for slithering s-words.

At least mini golf sticks to animals and flora of the cardboard variety.