Phil Mickelson disgusts me.

REMINDER: This is my blog where I get to say whatever I want. It's opinion, not something everyone has to espouse.

I have been married to Bob for 44 years so there must be a lot I love about him. There are hundreds of things about him that aggravate me too, but I can count on one hand the things about him that totally piss me off. One of those is he has a big mouth.

For example, when our daughter and son-in-law told us they were expecting a baby, I asked Bob to hold off on telling anyone else. Three days later he announced to a room full of convention delegates that he was going to be a grandfather. A few weeks later, we all mourned the loss of the baby. Awkward inquiries scraped that scab bloody for weeks on end.

I am a very private person. To the extent that I literally have to admonish myself that my husband and children deserve to know important---let's say life and death---matters occurring in my life. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005, it took more courage on my part to tell Bob, Paul, and Betsy than it did to face the cancer. I am NOT exaggerating. In fact, I had it all arranged that no one at work would know about the health issue from me. I asked for a day of vacation, arranged to have my surgery on Maundy Thursday, and knew that barring any unforeseen consequences I would be back at work as usual on Monday. So much for plans. The office manager strolled in the week before and asked me to assume an additional responsibility other than proofreading. I had no choice but to tell her that I didn't want them to be counting on me just then and told her why. Damn.

In the meantime, despite talking with Bob about my preference to not make my impending surgery, etc., cocktail or water cooler talk, he was blabbing to many people we know. Having cancer teaches you a lot about your friends and people in general. Mainly they are in two camps: those who want to know everything you're going through so it makes them feel better that it's you and not them and those who want to make you feel better by sharing every godawful horror story they've ever heard whether it's about the cancer, your doctor, your drugs, your hospital, your nail polish, your hospital gown, the color of your eyes. Pretty much screw 'em all. (I definitely came away from the experience knowing which friends I dearly value.)

That's how we get to Phil Mickelson. In the beginning I felt that he was a whiner, someone who is well aware that he will never be a superstar and pisses and moans about anyone else who get a chance in the limelight. Then his wife and mother got breast cancer. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a loving, supportive family and admire others for being that kind too. But for god's sake, having press conferences and crying because your wife has cancer. Encouraging teammates and fans to "wear pink." Making every day a "feel-good" moment. Soliciting fan adoration by "look at me, I can come out here and play this game even though my family is suffering." (Reminds me of my mother, a WWII veteran, who had no patience with modern day athletes who take off to be with their wives when they give birth. As she reasonably stated, during the war years a lot of babies were born without their daddies in attendance.)

Cancer is a killer. But cancer is survivable. And breast cancer has one of the highest rates of survivorship. My heart ached especially for Amy Mickelson. It's so much fun to have people fawn all over you, staring at your bosom, wondering. (And no doubt she got all those horror stories too.) I kept thinking how nice it would've been for her to go out to the golf course and follow her husband around the course just enjoying a beautiful day and a nice family event, making memories all along, and getting to ignore the breast cancer for a little while. The hoopla that I blame Phil himself for---and the hoopla that disgusts me---well, it wouldn't surprise me to hear that Amy suffered indignities just as I did from a husband who couldn't respect my privacy. I mean, how many of you would relish having people rub your baby fuzzed scalp without even asking if they could? It happened. More than once. I do not lie.

His behavior disgusted me before as a golf pro but it disgusted me more as a husband. But that's my OPINION. I'm not going to change my opinion and maybe Amy just ate it up. (Maybe she enjoyed the spotlight on her rather than her husband for a change.)

Again I say, I am not going to change my opinion, however, this blog has been written tonight because I was told in NO UNCERTAIN TERMS by someone close to me that I adore that I HAD TO LIKE that golfer. I tried to assert my individual rights but that just didn't cut it with a not-quite-five-year-old.

I Told You So.

"I told you so."

Those may be the most hateful, spiteful, hurtful words ever.

No one, young or old, likes to be reminded that they could have prevented something from happening if they'd only listened to someone superior and wiser than they are. You might as well look them in the face and say, "I am so much smarter than you. You're stupid." Or in some cases, I think the temptation is to say, "You dumbshit, why didn't you just listen to me."

Who wants to ever be on the receiving end of "I told you so."?

But there's also the one who is in the position of saying "I told you so." Smug, superior, haughty, brilliant. Pshaw. At least in my case it's more like "Why didn't I do more to stop this from happening?" "Why did I not assert myself more into this situation?" "Why was I so mamby-pamby about it?"

So who learned the biggest lesson---"I'll listen to your advice next time." or "Sometimes I do know what's best for you, so please let me guide you this time."

Yeah, I'm looking forward to seeing how this plays out in the future.