I’ll say up front, just so there’s no scandal later on, that I am not one of Tiger’s mistresses. I know I look the type—leggy, blonde and well dressed—but don’t worry. You won’t have to face the paparazzi asking for stories of “when Big Bahama Mama seduced Tiger” or anything like that. Maybe you’re disappointed. If so, feel free to make up stories and sell them to the Enquirer. If you get rich, give me a percentage and we’ll all be happy. Everyone except Tiger, that is. Oh, and his super-model wife who is, apparently, a dupe.
And, no, my mega-rich golf pro husband did not cheat on me. Far worse. I made fresh bread and he toasted it. Yup. Steaming hot from the oven, he sliced it and stuck it in the toaster and glopped butter on it when it was done. I feel so violated. Toasters are for bread that is past its prime. It’s the AARP for bread. But in no way can one call burn-your-hands-hot bread “past its prime.” I may relegate him to store bought bread for the duration of his miserable, gluten loving life.
I feel the same way about vegetables. Store bought veggies can be buttered and salted to high heaven. But if I pull broccoli from my garden, don’t you dare cover the taste up with sauce. A bit of balsamic vinegar on a tomato is okay, but garden veggies are not conduits for Ranch dressing. I feel strongly about this, and if I had a prenuptial agreement, I would still consider divorce a viable option for a man who treated my produce like haggard, trucked-in stuff. Deep breath.