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There Will Be Signs

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It’s late March. The snow is basically a dirty Slurpee pile in the Target parking lot, your seasonal depression is hanging on by a thread, and your skin still hasn’t seen daylight since November. But ladies… brace yourselves . The golf maniac inside your husband? He’s waking up . It starts off innocent enough: a casual scroll through Golf Galaxy. But suddenly, he’s watching putter reviews on YouTube like he’s studying for the LSAT. He’s refreshing the weather app like he’s tracking a hurricane. “Babe! Thursday’s supposed to hit 53!” Okay, should we pack for Cabo, or…? And then, the practice swings . Oh my god, the practice swings. While holding random household items. A spatula. The remote. A shampoo bottle. Mid-conversation! I’m telling him about the absolute chaos at school drop-off, and he’s half-turned away, taking a backswing like he’s at the Masters. Sir. Read the room. By now, the group chat is absolute chaos. Ping! Ping! Ping! “League starts soon, boys!” Meanwhile, the garage l...
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“Let’s Call Him…” – The Golf Husband Collection

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Golf season is upon us, ladies, and with it comes a parade of questionable behavior from the men we married. Every Thursday (or whatever sacred day their league falls on), we send them off with hope in our hearts that maybe—just maybe— they’ll return like a normal human. But no. That is not our fate. Instead, we get one of these Golf Husband species stumbling into our homes: The Passed Out Paul Paul walks in and faceplants wherever gravity takes him. The bed? Maybe. The couch? Sure. The back patio with a Michelob Ultra still clutched in his hand? Absolutely. And let’s not forget he’s always fully dressed in jeans and boots , because comfort is for the weak. The Houdini Hank Hank? We don’t know him. Because he never responds to texts. Not a “Be home soon,” not an “I’m alive,” not even a “Just one more hole” ( which is a lie anyway ). But rest assured, even though we have no idea where he is , we’ll 1000% know the exact moment he comes home —because it will sound like a ...
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Welcome to the Club You Never Asked to Join

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It all started with the biggest lie ever told: “I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.” Sure, babe. And I’m gonna fold the laundry right after I sit down. We’re a group of women who got blindsided by golf season. One minute, you’re married to a perfectly normal human. The next, they’re waking up at 5 AM, more excited than they were on your wedding day, throwing on an outfit that somehow costs more than your entire skincare routine. And for what? To chase a tiny white ball around like their life depends on it. Two hours? Try eight. And they roll in like conquering heroes, starving like they’ve been stranded in the desert, only to annihilate your sandwich—the one you were banking on for lunch tomorrow. Oh, and if it rains? No problem. There’s an entire rain-proof golf outfit for that, because apparently, they’re training for the PGA and Survivor. So, we did what wives do best—we turned our collective suffering into something productive: The Wife Co. Cute, comfy sweatshirts for the one...
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