My first real Super Hero encounter.

So we have one day of decent weather to play a little golf and my new mentor/partner asks if I want to ride in her cart. So being the newby on the course, I gladly jump at the chance to have a chauffeur on the links to show me the way to golf nirvana.

I had no idea how good this was going to be until I get a glimpse of her at a distance driving up to sweep me off my feet in - now wait for it - the tricked-out, gadget filled Batmobile. I nearly fell over, but my Super Hero balance trigger kicked in and I stayed upright til I knelt down in front of the cart with hands bowing with respect. "I'm not worthy." I've only been training since January. Do I dare? I was as giddy as a teenage girl who'd just been kissed by Lawrence Taylor, no wait, wait, Taylor Lautner. Oops. God, I hope his wife doesn't read this blog.

So I'm thinking, Holy Snot Rocket, her husband is the caped crusader and apparently not worried about hiding his identity. It's weird though, because her name isn't Vicki Vale. She's probably hiding her identity because she doesn't want anyone to know she's a reporter for the Reno Gazette Journal. It has some issues of late, (I mean in the analytical sense, like it doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up - New York Times, USA Today). Sorry, sometimes I just can't stop myself.

I have to say, I play a much better game of golf when I'm surrounded by my true Super Hero accessories and paraphernalia. I felt so at home. It was a little awkward at the end of the day when everyone had gone inside for the end-of-the tournament meal and I was still sitting in the cart waiting for a signal from the Mayor of Gotham City.

Oh, and my partner who's name isn't Vicki Vale, is one of those super do-gooders who hands out her own body organs like candy at Halloween. Oh yeah, you need a spleen, she'll spare it; a kidney, no problem. Where do these people come from? I don't even think she went through any formal training for this.

There was a time when "pregnant" was a dirty word

I promise to increase my blogging frequency. I promise to increase my blogging frequency. Okay, I've said it twice, so that means it will happen. I just don't say Candy Man three times, or even twice for that matter. I don't want to take any chances.

I am back into the full swing of things. I started training again last week with full gusto, okay 1/2 gusto during an hour session with stalker trainer and BFF Robin. I continued the week with two more sessions at 1-1/2 hours and another at 2 hours. Oh yeah baby, paint the Super Hero suit on me now.

I also played golf three days last week. No, I did not walk. I have a CART bag, not a "whatever you call those bags you carry." I think there is a strict rule you shouldn't walk with a cart bag. It's an unspoken rule so don't ask anybody about it. It's like back in the old days - no one talked about women being pregnant, they would just say, oh yes Pearl, "she's in the family way," in a light, hushed whisper. I know it sounds crazy, but it is absolutely true.

I haven't weighed myself this week. I'm waiting until I start feeling some other protruding bones I've never felt before. I might have some hip bones hibernating somewhere. I know I'm making some headway. I have to be, because I'm truly suffering right now. How? You say.

I quit drinking. I know, what's up with that? Well..... when I say I quit drinking, I mean I quit Sunday through Thursday. Okay I quit Sunday through Thursday when I'm home for the evening......okay, and when I don't have any company over. This is deprivation. I think I know how those people feel who go on eight-day cleanses.

It's sad for my daughter though, because she doesn't get a hot meal anymore for dinner. I'm sure you've heard of the book, "The Joy of Cooking." Well, in fine print that only I, as a Super Hero can read - it stipulates the requirement for you to have a glass of fine wine in your hand to master the actual "joy" of cooking. I follow instructions to the letter of the law. If I can't have wine - there will be no hot cuisine. I'm kidding of course, she can still have heated-up kid's cuisines from our grocer's freezer. I'm not a total monster.