Arnold “Arn” Washtoff of Santa Fe, California rues Mondays. Mr. Washtoff has been the next door neighbor of Phil Mickelson for the past 14 years.

“I’m not doing it anymore,” an agitated Mr. Washtoff said. “Inevitably I’ll see him driving around the cul-de-sac with that grin all over his face. The conversation always starts with him. ‘Oh Hey, Arn. How was your weekend?’ He knows I’ll answer. Fine, Phil, just fine. I brought Cindy and Lucy to their volleyball tournament and then Anne and I caught a movie. Then he’ll say, ‘Wow that sounds exciting!’ Then he’ll pause and stare at me. Eventually I’m forced to ask how his weekend was. Mickelson will say something to the effect of, ‘Oh nothing special. Amy and I had dinner at the White House. Obamas, nice people.’ He might offer, ‘Yeah, won a claret jug.'”

Washtoff rubbed his forehead, exasperated.

“Sometimes, I’ll be out here edging the lawn and I’ll see him riding his John Deere in his Masters Jacket. ‘Hey Arn, I’ve got two more of these.’ He’ll hold up two fingers. The guy is just insufferable.”