They Don't Teach You This Stuff in College

This past weekend was full of sporting merriment, which in my opinion, is some of the best kind of merriment there is. I mean, what is better than the start of college football, pro football, and the U7 soccer league?

I'll tell you what: junior golf.

A few months ago, Brad stopped by Play-It-Again Sports in search of some kid-sized irons. Our goal, of course, is to begin Jackson and Lilly's illustrious golf career by chipping some balls over at the park across our from house. It is just like a real fairway except that the houses along it haven't signed up to have their windows broken by shanked balls.

Brad called home, all excited about the prospect of millions of dollars (Jackson) and adorable golf outfits (Lilly). (Or me.) (Or all of us.)

Anyway, he pulled into the driveway (waving the clubs out the window for emphasis) and called the kids over to see Their Future.

Unfortunately, the clubs were a little long. We were only $2 into this venture (apparently we're going to invest in quality clubs just as soon as they start making contact with the ball) so Brad took matters into his own hands.

Now if there's one thing I simultaneously love and hate about Brad, it's his handiness and love for do-it-yourself projects.

Good things have come of it, like the amazing custom shelves for our playroom, my PBK knock-off changing table, and basement shelves strong enough to hold the 1985 Bears defensive line.

However, there are some drawbacks, like the fact that we've lived in this house for over a year and have no prospects of having any sort of backyard before the grandchildren arrive in a couple of decades.

(I am seizing this as my opportunity to love him for who he is.)

Well, Brad decided that before the golf careers of our Mini Me's could take off, he must cut the golf clubs down to size.

This involved several steps:

1. Watch YouTube videos to see how other people have cut down their clubs.

2. Believe YouTube is a reliable source of information.

3. Convince me that he should use several power tools to imitate the "brilliance" of complete strangers featured in YouTube videos.

By now, you may understand that I don't believe YouTube to be a credible DIY resource.

A few months ago, Brad decided we should try E-85 (you know, the corn fuel) in our cars. His source for this epiphany?

Watching YouTube videos featuring other Chevy Suburbans that didn't blow up. That is hardly the standard of excellence we strive for.

Or so I thought.

We filled that tank with E-85 and haven't looked back.

Nor have we blown up the car, so I suppose those lunatics are on to something.

Well, the "golf club cutting experts" on YouTube beautifully demonstrated that we should get out our air compressor and blow the grips right off those clubs.

I was skeptical, especially considering our Barry Bonds of Air Compressors is strong enough to inflate an innertube just by looking at it.

Not about to witness the clubs blasting through the front yard and hurting a small child, I waited inside while Tim-The-Toolman-Taylor cranked up the compressor and went to work.

A few seconds later (I told you it was strong), Brad came in with the grips successfully peeled down.

The next step was to go in the basement and use some sawing device to trim about six inches off the clubs.

I honestly wasn't aware that we had power tools with metal-cutting capabilities, but I will keep that in mind next time I am trying to wrestle the wire-cutters to separate the stems from my Hobby Lobby floral bunch. 

Like a kid in the power tool aisle, Brad literally came bounding up the stairs (picture Santa's enthusiasm, but thinner, and carrying golf clubs) with the irons successfully shorn down about half a foot.

Somehow, he sealed the grip back on, then took Tiger and Tigress over to the park to start printing money.

So all this to say, maybe YouTube is a fantastic news source that I've been denouncing all this time. 

And I am prouder of Tim-the-Toolman than I let on.

But when I start looking to YouTube for fashion advice, somebody PLEASE stop me.