So my friend Mary called to see if I had seen the latest Vanity Fair. I had. Or at least the cover with a simply lovely shot of the eternally perfect Grace Kelly. Mary then complained that we weren’t in it. “Why”, I asked. “Well”, she responded, “They have an article on Tiger’s women as well as an, er, amazing photo spread. Check it out and call me.” So I did. The irony of flipping past the flawless Grace Kelly to find Tiger Wood’s women didn’t escape me for a moment and when I found them, the difference could not have been more dramatic or, as some might say, pneumatic. They are quite a bunch.

Now, why, you ask, should Mary have wondered about our absence in this particular photo spread. Well, as I sited a few blogs ago, Mary and I have the dubious distinction of writing a piece called “We Slept With Tiger” about two suburban moms meeting the golf superstar while on a elementary school field trip. The piece was actually published by the highly respected “Publishers Weekly ” and received at least one stunned and negative comment from a reader. “Has Publishers Weekly actually come to this?” I believe was the phrase he used. This, having no idea that in the original version, Mar and Jen (we used our real names) actually made love to the guy who can “go all night”, according to one of the Vanity Fair ladies, on a pile of clean socks heaved at my spouse after a bout of criticism and never cleaned up. The published version did feature Tiger polishing off leftover pancakes shaped like dinosaurs and texting us LOL when we proposed a third encounter, which we thought meant Lots of Love. It was an impressive Solzhenitsyn-esque bit of writing, “Cancer Ward” with humor and we were shocked when the New Yorker rejected us outright. After it was published we had to field calls from publishers and literary agents who were interested in giving us a book deal. Seriously. They really did call. I was confused and kept asking them what book they actually saw us writing? “Other Men We Haven’t Slept With”? “My Romances with Osama Bin Laden and Stalin”? “MacCauley Caulkin: Love of My Life”. We are still trying to figure out how to take advantage of the clearly desperate book market and I’ll let you know how we do. In the meantime, here are the Tiger Babe photos and no one even called to inquire whether we’d like to participate. I’ve looked closely at them. They are interesting. One features a naked twenty something lollygagging on a bed of New York Post back issues with Tiger on the cover. Another is a waitress friend of Tiger’s eating, of course, a marraccino cherry at a lunch counter. Then there’s the girl who for some inexplicable reason is wearing her bathing suit while walking down a hall. Actually, there might be an explicable reason. She has the biggest boobs I have EVER seen on something not in the Guiness Book and how else to display them but in a hall in a bathing suit. The final girl I can’t really recall right now but I guarantee she isn’t doing anything that real people do and she isn’t wearing anything that real people would wear and she has extremely good hair. And therein lies the rub. The reason Mar and I are not in the article (other than the fact that we didn’t actually sleep with Tiger) is because we don’t have the right hair, makeup, support underwear, stylist and photographer. And I suppose location is important too. So here’s what I’m proposing. I am going to find us that team. I am going to get us some Tiger babe worthy photos and I am going to make Vanity Fair wish that they had called. I called Mar to tell her as much and she said “Are you out of your fucking mind”. Now granted, Mar was cranky because she has a book coming out and to get her looking her best for the book tour she did what every writer from Styron to Salinger has done prior to book tours and got herself some sort of new fraxel or pixel or something facial peel. She called and asked my opinion about doing it and since I was way to scared to get one myself I thought, heck, sure, let your friend do it first. Well, apparently Styron was not very honest about pre-book tour peels. He, in fact, never said a word. As Mar put it, she found herself lying in the laser experts chair, the smell of her burning flesh in her nose, biting her lips to fight the excruciating pain thinking “I am a fucking vain idiot and I hate myself.” She was still saying this yesterday but maybe if it looks really good in a day or two she’ll change her mind and be more into getting some Tiger photos taken. In the meantime, her face is too pink and sensitive and she wants to lose some weight. Although her cleavage, as I told her, with the proper propping, will be fabulous. So that’s my goal. By weeks end, I will get a team of beauty crafters together and I will turn two women at the half century mark into true Tiger babes and I will make Vanity Fair wish they had called us. I will make the New Yorker sorry they didn’t like our story. And I will make Tiger wish he’d actually had a chance with us. And maybe we’ll find a book deal. Something like “George Clooney Loves My Generous Ass in the Right Light”. Or “When Brad Pitt Said He Prefers Wrinkles Because They Add Character.” I’d like to promise I’m going to turn us into Grace Kelly lookalikes but the truth about Grace is, she actually was beautiful and no team of stylists could take that away from her even if they tried. And, my god, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a hall in a bathing suit. But I might. Particularly if I get a book deal.