Kathryn had the van all cleaned out and organized so the boys and I could ride together to Black Bear, where the tournament was held this year. She had moved my clubs from the caddie to the van. She had laid out my clothes for me, so I would "match." She chose my purple gear. So, I was eventually adorned from head to toe in purple, black, and white. I was absolutely resplendent! This is important because, as my old father used to say, "If you can't be good, you can at least be colourful."
Kathryn even decided to sort out my golf balls for me. She often walks the course with me and ball hawks, eventually filling my bag with previously-enjoyed balls to the point that I can hardly lift the damned thing. So, Kathryn took out all but the Pro V's. I play Pro V's; not because they are necessarily better--though I think they are--but mainly because they're the cadillac of golf balls. If you want to pretend to be a golfer, you can't announce at the first tee that you'll be playing a Top Flite. It simply isn't done.
Kathryn even decided to clean my previously-enjoyed Pro Vs for me. I mean, that's just how awesome she is. She treats me like a king. After she'd cleaned them, she asked me whether I wanted her to get out the Sharpie and write my initials on them.
She said, "Shall I put 'BFM' on them?"
I replied, "BFM?"
She said "Like in Pulp Fiction."
I laughed and said, "Not 'BFM.' It's 'BMF.'" I loved Pulp Fiction. In fact, I even had a convict make wallets for my sons one Xmas with "Bad Mother Fucker" tooled into the leather.
Anyway, I later told the guys about Kathryn wanting to put "BFM" on my Titleists. George said she should have put "TFS" on them. "You know," Georgie said. "Too Fucking Short!"
He has a point.