That Deserves a 9 Iron

First of all, let me say that it is almost 11 pm and I've been up since 6:30 this morning with nothing but a short nap while we were watching John Adams, the HBO mini-series (which, as a history whore I love, but strongly recommend watching it with the subtitles on. Freakin' Cockney accents). Today was our Reserves unit annual Christmas party and as FRG leader, I held a couple of family support meetings in the morning, sold coffee and muffins to the soldiers to raise money for FRG, and then attended the lunch that afternoon. We then laid in bed and watched television shows from networks that we're too cheap to subscribe to as they were streamed in from our Netflix account. (Although now we're so caught up on Dexter that the next season is only available on DVD. It's about this time that we go in search of our next series. Hello, Californication.) All of this to say, that the very last thing I should be doing is blogging. I should be writing the FRG newsletter that is scheduled to go out at the end of the month. I should also be answering emails and researching marketing ideas. But I should be budgeting more than $1.25 to charity every month and I should always remember my reusable tote for the store...so, in the world of "shoulds"...perhaps this is not such an unforgivable transgression.

Which brings me to the reason for my post. I missed SNL last night because I'd been at the drill hall for most of Saturday and knew that today would be long. I had actually skipped SNL altogether for most of late 90's and early 2000's because it became, in a word, redonkulous. But who can resist a quality spoof on the UPS commercials or a comment on the wretched state of the economy. Or a good ole fashioned mocking of an over-played, excessively covered news story...as in Tiger and Elin Woods, for example. I only enjoy golf when I'm trying to take a nap, so I'm not a die-hard Tiger fan...but I do like to think that I saw him for the boy-wonder that he was. He struck a deal with the devil and life became golden for the golf genius. He managed to acquire several championship wins, a Nordic model (as in, the 2-legged, waif-like type...not a brand of elliptical trainers), and a couple of precious kids, in addition to a fleet of cars and a fiefdom of land. What more could a man want?? And the answer to that. More sex. The man had a life that most men, sitting in their partitioned cubicles, working to pay off the Camry, would die for. Most men would give their left nut to come home to a woman who said "I do" and looked delicious in a size 2 thong. But perhaps it's this kind of thinking that sent us into shock when someone actually divorced Martha Stewart. HOW do you divorce the woman who can craft a sled out of tulle and frost cupcakes using real flower petals? Imagine what Christmas looks like in Martha Stewart's house...I imagine lots of sterling silver and maybe a midget..er, I mean elf, or 2. At any rate, why do men leave or cheat on or divorce what we deem to be "the perfect woman"? And if that happens to them, what hope do we have, if any, that it won't happen to us? If a Swedish model loses her husband to a cocktail waitress with a Jennifer Grey nose, then what logic will stop my husband from sleeping with the Kroger cashier? When I brought this up to Neal, he scoffed at me (and that is absolutely the correct word for what he did. I am not scoffed at often, but I recognize it when it happens). He made some lame remark about how I'm much prettier than a Swedish model and then he went to sleep. So...really? Nothing. There is nothing that stops a man from pulling a Tiger. It really just comes down to how the moment (read: slutty ho in low-slung jeans with a tramp stamp) presents itself. And if the moment presents itself and you decide to embrace the moment (and perhaps mount the moment), then I reserve the right to come after you with a nine iron. If you ask me, I think Tiger got off lucky (and that's after getting off many times before, apparently all over L.A.). I am not here to put a stamp of approval on domestic violence, however I think a woman has the right to express her emotions about the infidelities...or, uh....transgressions of her husband, even if it involves a set of clubs. The point is? Just because you have great teeth and a multi-million dollar contract with Nike, you should not be able to put your wood into any old ho..uh, I mean golf bag.

Elin, I appreciate the irony in your weapon of choice. After all, without the golf club, chances are, that cocktail waitress (with dollar signs in her eyes) would never have looked at him twice. And while your life would be drastically different - clipping coupons and DVR'ing Dancing with the Stars, you would still have glass in the back of your SUV and your husband would be hopelessly devoted to you. Unless he started doing all of the grocery shopping.