“Let’s Call Him…” – The Golf Husband Collection
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 f*ing SWAT raid.**
Doors flying open. Cabinets slamming. Ice maker cranking. The man Kool-Aid Mans his way into the house at 2 AM, and we are just supposed to accept this.
The Ravager Rick
Rick walks in, and it’s as if he hasn’t eaten in days. He devours everything—leftovers, the rotisserie chicken meant for tomorrow’s dinner, a sleeve of Oreos, my kid’s pre-packed school lunch.
Nothing is safe.
I have witnessed my husband eat a completely dry slice of bread straight from the bag while making direct eye contact with me. Send help.
The Number Texter Nick
Ding! A text from my husband. Maybe he’s saying he’s on his way home? Maybe he misses me?
Nope. Just:
“39.”
…cool?
The first time this happened, I thought maybe it was a hostage situation. But no, it’s his golf score. Which he assumes I care about. Which I do not.
(Also, is 39 good? Bad? I don’t know. I don’t care. Don’t text me numbers unless it’s the tracking info for the package you told me not to order.)
The Horny Hank
Listen, Hank, no.
You just spent eight hours with your friends drinking Coors Light and barely making contact with the ball, and now you wanna come home and make solid contact with me?! Absolutely not.
I have been home alone with the kids. I have cleaned up spilled milk, broken up fights over the “good” iPad, and have not peed in peace once.
I smell like chicken nuggets and despair. Get. Away.
The Outfit Obsessed Owen
Owen doesn’t just play golf—he dresses for golf. And not just in any old polo and shorts. No, no. This man is out here looking like he’s about to step onto the PGA Tour, even though he plays the same janky municipal course every week.
If the forecast calls for rain? He’s dropping $500 on “essential” rain gear. Windy? He suddenly needs a new quarter-zip that “blocks gusts” (whatever that means). And if there’s even a hint of sun, he’s rocking a fresh, crisp white belt like he’s auditioning for a country club membership.
And don’t even get me started on the shoes. He has more golf shoes than I have heels, and yet every season, he convinces himself he needs another pair because “these ones have better grip.”
Owen’s closet is 90% golf apparel, 10% regular clothes, and 0% shame.
The Couple Beers Carl
Carl has definitely NOT just had “a couple beers.”
But when he stumbles through the door—blinking one eye at a time, swaying like a tree in a hurricane, and trying to plug his phone charger into the wall three feet away from the actual outlet—he INSISTS that he’s “totally fine.”
"Babe, I only had, like, a couple beers."
Oh? Then why did it take you four minutes to unlock the front door? Why are you attempting to high-five the fridge? Why are you standing in the pantry eating shredded cheese straight from the bag like a feral raccoon??
Sir, your left shoe is still in the driveway. Your truck is parked diagonally across the lawn. I could wring the Michelob Ultra out of your pores and get a full pint.
But sure, Carl. A couple beers.
So, ladies. As we brace for another golf season, just know that we are all in this together. We see you. We hear you.
And most importantly, we know you got that damn “39” text too.
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