So this morning, as I’m muscling through the weekday morning routine, convincing the Tyrant to wear underwear and dragging the Pterodactyl to the car in his pajamas because he won’t get dressed, a sex maniac was passing by in a limousine. People Magazine was there to record the moment.

I live in the Sawgrass Players Club neighborhood, home to the PGA Tour headquarters, which is where Tiger Woods chose to admit to the world that he can’t stop boinking women who aren’t his wife. But he’s in therapy, so that’s good.

I feel a little strange about this, that I was stirring whole milk into the morning Easy Mac to make it creamier and more full of calcium while, less than a mile away, a small village of people were focused on Tiger’s sex life. It was a melding of worlds, like when the kids walk into the room unexpectedly while Jerry Springer is yelling, “SO WHOSE KID DO YOU THINK HE IS?”

Hot Firefighter Husband and I last night debated whether sex can be an addiction. I claim it absolutely can be an addiction because Dr. Drew Pinsky, shrink to fucked-up stars, has an entire reality show about it. Husband thinks the term sex addiction refers to being rich and famous and having the opportunity to engage in really hot sex all the time. He almost sounded a little wistful.

I watched Tiger’s statement. I’m glad he’s sorry. I felt relieved at the end when his mother held him, because at least she still loves him. I don’t.

The other day, the Diva was listening to that TikTok song by Kesha, and she asked her dad what “boys wanna touch my junk” means. He told her she didn’t need to know. But she does need to know. She’s only 8 years old, but in about two seconds she’s going to be 21 and gorgeous and some handsome schmuck with no control over his schlong is going to promise her the same moon he has promised to a hundred other gorgeous girls.

If she’s like me — well, let’s just hope she’s not like me. But even if she’s smart and astute and a good judge of character, some guy, somewhere is going to lie his way into her psyche and mess her up good. I don’t know who he is, so I can’t be enraged at him yet.

But I can be mad at Tiger. And I am.