We slept with Tiger Woods. We did. Really. Ask him; he is not going to deny it.

Surprisingly, we had been having trouble selling our story. Gloria Allred did not call back. The Enquirer, TMZ, and In Touch did not respond to our messages. We were going to end up being, like, Nos. 21 & 22 at the rate things were going. But then, it turned out it was easier for us to find someone who went to summer camp with David Remnick than anyone who knew the editor-in-chief of Star magazine. So we are selling our story to the New Yorker. Yes, the New Yorker.

And you know, we should be selling our story to the New Yorker. In our day, we were like the Romy and Michelle of Yale. Okay, maybe not Yale. Tufts.

Plus we've got the literary goods, like all the unabbreviated, grammatically correct text messages and our incredible proximity to John Cheever's first rental home on the day we met the golfing guy.

It all started years ago, when we were chaperoning a field trip to the Trump International Golf course with the third grade social studies class to study community workers. How lucky were we when Tiger walked over, putter in hand and a grin on his face, and a desire to sign autographs. The kids went nuts. He finished signing and looked over at us. To this day, we don't know what it was. We were wondering aloud about whether Lorrie Moore would ever write another novel, since it had been so long since The Frog Hospital (like we said, it was a while ago).

Maybe it was our serious expressions and lack of lip liner, but we were debating whether Retin-A was really working on Jen's fine lines or whether I should have another bone scan when Tiger sauntered over to greet us. “Hello, ladies, what are you up to today?” When we told him about the kids' reading room at the library, the new Super Stop and Shop the size of Madison Square Garden, and how much homework third graders are getting these days, he was mesmerized. Then he asked if he could spend the night with us.

We said, “Sure.” We just had to make 14 phone calls. Took care of the kids, husbands, and pizza delivery. Then we had to decide whose house was cleaner. Tough call. We went to Mary's.

We did what we needed to on a pile of clean laundry and he finished up the dinosaur pancakes still left in the pan from the kids' breakfast. It was all fine. We only saw him one other time. That was at Jen's house on a day the cleaning lady had been there. He said we should all take Ambien and make our “experience” so much more enjoyable. Well, we took the Ambien and we had the best nap we've had in years. Jen almost missed pickup at the middle school. We're not sure what happened, exactly. When we woke up, he was gone. He'd clearly made himself a sandwich 'cause the mayo jar was left on the counter and he hadn't put the milk away, either.

After that, we texted him a few times proposing we get together and apologizing for us falling asleep. He would just reply “LOL,” which, thanks to an 11-year-old, we finally figured out means Laugh Out Loud, not Lots of Love. Oh well.

So there you have it. The New Yorker is going to sell through the roof. Don't you think? This is going to be so great for our brand. Forget Cougar Town guest shots. We want Charlie Rose and no book deal unless Bob Gottlieb is our editor and David Levine makes caricatures of us on tote bags which will fit, like, one-eighth of the kids' hockey gear. Okay, maybe one-sixth.