I had been wrong for stealing my grandmother's orthopedic shoes, but I faced the consequences the following morning. And I faced them good. Instead of looking trendy and very old school (a pun which I referred to, without fail, on the hour, every hour), I looked tragically out of date in the Velcro, soft-slip loafers. Where had I gone wrong? Attitude. You can't play tough if you don't look tough, despite sporting stylish sneakers. I was stompin' in my Lady's Delicate-Frame Reeboks with Arch Support, but let's be honest, I was basically stomping on my own grave. Apologetically, I handed back the footwear to the old lady that very evening, and proceeded to kick back in her mauve arm-chair (the rotary phone of furniture, if you will) for a night of fiber-enriched goodies and the hilarious antics of Public Television's very own, British Comedy.

On any given night, one can find me in hysterics by the telly. The sight of a proper gentleman fuming with European rage while wearing a woman's wig and running amuck with his British coworkers as they get out of yet another pickle with the local authorities usually has me laughing. I could hardly muster up a chuckle for this episode. The guilt was killing me. Not even raisin-encrusted raisins could cheer me up. In an effort to lift my spirits, my grandmother turned the channel to a nightlong marathon of "Golden Girls." I was forever changed. Call me old-fashioned, but I'll take the ever flirtatious and sex appeal-dripping Blanche over Tiger Woods any day. Unfortunately, I had to settle for Betty White. And so I did. Together, we set out on a Luxury Golf Excursion to New England Vacation Town for Grade-B Celebrities, USA.

"Life doesn't get much more precious than this," Betty told me over cocktails and coconut pudding. "I've got my camouflage long-johns on, my tailor-fit denim visor covering my bed of pearly hair (freshly permed, mind you), and Lord knows that I've got a caddy who I can humiliate without any moral obligation to make amends." I nodded humbly, and took stride in belittling the awkward youth whom Ms. White had personally handpicked from a nearby boarding school for gifted descendants of above-average parents, some five miles north of Yorkshire. Poor, checkered uniform-clad Geoffrey had no idea what the day held in store when he agreed to a brisk speed-walking contest with his schoolyard mates. Kids can be so cruel, but then again, so can the elderly.

I learned a lesson or two in making others feel bad with Betty. Some would say, I learned a lesson or two about non-violent self-defense. In my days with Betty, I found that wisdom either comes from experience, Vietnam or from an aging, but disgruntled member of high society. "Listen to me, little girl," Betty often repeated over the course of our weeklong vacation, "You can't walk through life as if you've got two peg legs, a prosthetic arm and you're wearing an eye patch. I spent my entire childhood in an iron lung, by choice. You don't see me complaining." She was right. I took the next flight home.

Those sweet, sweet guardian T.W. Angels never cease to please. The plane ride home was delightful. I watched the enthralling Robin Williams in "Jumanji" on the overhead Television screen, and I had more than my fair share of off honey-roasted nuts and Ginger Ale. Most importantly, however, I had my fill of the vegetarian meal which I cleverly ordered ahead of time so that I could start eating minutes before the rest of the meat-craving passengers even caught wind of their hashed meat casserole. With all due respect, the dirty glances that I received from fellow voyagers were well worth the inaccurate smell of my Shiitake mushroom lasagna. Those people knew that I had tricks up my sleeves, but I'm no David Copperfield and his spectacular human tornado. Really, I'm more of a carnie pinned down by a tidal wave. For, as I was riding my wave of success and glory, the ocean suddenly turned stormy. I knew that at some point in my life, I would rue the day that I ever poked fun at Tiger Woods. That point in my life happens to be towards the end of my article. "I have nothing to fear, but fear itself," I try to tell myself. Not so: I have the mighty aura of an insulted super-golfer to follow me through each step of the day. How could I have ever said that an aging beauty queen turned nymphomaniac is preferable to the almighty Tiger Woods? After all, has Blanche succeeded in changing the face of Golf forever? I suppose only time will tell, my friends. But for now, I fear my golfing days are over.