By Steve Hill — Rattling Chains staff
Bless my wonderful wife.
First, it was football. She would hear me talk nonstop about all the NFL action she could handle, until it all sank in and she acquired this insane level of knowledge that she can unleash to impress our fantasy football league (of which, yes, she is the only female participant).
Now, it is disc golf.
Being that I am a disc golf player, writer (allegedly), and all-around obsessive, she is always having to listen to (or tune out – really, I don’t know) my various adventures. Ranging from “I was this close to an ace today!” to “I think I want x disc in y plastic, but I am not sure because I like the grip of z plastic better,” she certainly gets her fill, yet never complains.
Recently, though, I thought I had pushed her to her breaking point.
You see, my wife was recently offered a new job, which found us relocating to North San Diego County, California. For those who are unfamiliar with the area, it is close to the beach, has boatloads of craft breweries and, most importantly, a nice selection of disc golf courses.
In short, we relocated to my personal mecca.
There was only one minor drawback, though — house hunting. Goodness, house hunting is the worst, and nowhere near as glamorous as those shows on HGTV (which I totally don’t watch, and only know about because my wife watches them and I hear them in the background). We were on a crunch for time, and we needed to find a place that would be near enough to her work and not require a ton of time in traffic.
Now remember: Close to the beach, beer, and golf courses. Should have been enough for me, right?
Every time we looked up a new place to rent, I would look at three things — the price, if it allowed pets, and how close it was to the nearest disc golf course. Often times, we were looking at a 25-minute drive, which for many readers (and Rattling Chains head honcho P.J.) is probably close enough.