Hell Has A Soundtrack

Last weekend I attended a baby shower for a good friend of mine. It was all I could do to drag my cranky ass to the festivities, because I dislike children and I detest hen parties. But mom-to-be (who didn't want to attend the shower any more than I did) is a good friend and I needed to show my support. When I spoke to my good friend E earlier last week she raised the subject of the shower, and I asked if she knew who was going to be there. She said the vast majority of attendees were going to be friends of the paternal grandmother. I found this quite alarming because it meant I was going to have to act properly and behave myself. I told E that she might as well staple my mouth shut beforehand because there was no way I'd be able to go the entire afternoon without dropping an f-bomb or saying something about sucking balls and/or my butt.

Once we were at the shower I clung closely to E and our other friends (of whom there were two) and managed to sit prissily in my chair and smile politely while I clutched my glass of wine in pathetic desperation. At one point E said that we needed to circulate and socialize with the other attendees, but when I told her that I'd rather gauge my eyes out with a spork she took pity on me and dropped the subject.

At one point E and I went outside to smoke, because we are rude, nasty girls. There was nothing but sunshine outside, but somehow it started raining on us. E asked me if I knew what that meant.

"Uh, a rainbow?"

"No, you stupid whore. It means that the devil is beating his wife."

"What the hell? Oh, whatever."

"Speaking of hell, what songs do you think they play there? You know Satan has a playlist. The songs that suck so much that listening to them is pure torture."

"Heard It In A Love Song by Marshall Tucker Band. That shit gives me hives. Oh! And also that Blinded by the Light song where it sounds like they're singing about douches."

"Yes!. I think On My Own, that duet with Patti LaBelle and Michael McDonald has got to be on heavy rotation in hell."

"Definitely! And that song Green Eyed Lady? I think it's by a band called Sugarloaf or something. Any band that has the word loaf in its name has got to blow ass. It's probably in The Bible somewhere."

"And anything by Neil Young!"

[...]

"What? You got a hold of some bad crack, you dumb whore."

"Neil Young sucks, doesn't he?"

"Oh my god, E. I cannot be your friend anymore."

"What? He sings that song about riding through the desert on a horse with no name. That song can suck my dick."

"Ok, first of all, that song isn't by Neil Young. And second, I hope you learn to love all the songs we've talked about, because you're going to hell for thinking Neil Young sang that shit."

Vacation Fun With The Ponies

Woot! I'm back from my visit with Pops Sparkles in New Jersey. I am sure I'll be regaling you with various related stories in the coming days, because oh my lord there are some stories to tell, but at the moment I'm just basking in the glow of being back home. The trip was great, I had fun with Pops Sparkles and Stepmother Sparkles, and being away from the office was the icing on the Awesome Cake.

Truth be known though, I'm ready to get back to work and reclaim my title of Productive Member of Society. There are many people who can do great deeds even though their livelihood doesn't depend on it, but clearly I am not one of those people. I got back into town last night, and today I spent my last day of vacation eating Crunch N' Munch and watching Agatha Christie mystery movies on tv. The fact that I managed to hoist my fat ass off the sofa to go to TinkleTown rather than urinate on the sofa was a small victory.

Anyway, there were any number of high points to my visit, but the day we spent at Belmont Park was among the most memorable. I've grown up with thoroughbred racing and have watched races at Belmont Park on television, so it was a real treat to go there in person. It's located on Long Island, and in order to get there from New Jersey we had to drive through The Bronx. On a Yankees vs Mets game day. Ugh. I've never been a fan of baseball (a fact that my once-professional-baseball-playing father finds more than a bit disturbing) but now I hate it more than ever. Sitting on the George Washington Bridge with nothing more to do than stare for 45 minutes at cars full of foam fingers and drunk face painters can do that to you.

Long story short, we made it through the city and onto Long Island to Belmont. Once there, I dutifully studied my Racing Digest, made my picks, and proceeded to lose each race. There are some bastards around there somewhere. It had to be a conspiracy, because it sure as shit couldn't be my legendary handicapping skills. (You may recall that these same legendary skills led me to select Cowtown Cat to win this year's Kentucky Derby. You may also recall that Cowtown Cat finished dead last.) Anyway, at one point I found myself with a $4 betting voucher that I didn't know what to do with. I noticed that a horse whose morning odds had been 5-1 had dropped like a rock to 14-1. He seemed to be as perfectly sound as he had been that morning, i.e. he still had all four feet and both eyeballs, so I figured what the hell. I plopped down my throwaway $4 voucher on some fool called Leadwithyourchin.

Here is a pictorial illustration of the last moments of that particular race:


There are four horses at the front. Leadwithyourchin is on the outside. I was cautiously optimistic at this point. I've been burned too many times before, and I'm no sucker. At least that's what I keep telling myself.


You can see here that my horse (#4), wearing the yellow saddlecloth, is starting to pull away. It was right around this time that I started screaming like a little girl and jumping around like I was on a pogo stick.


And this is when I wet myself.

Ah, good times.

I'm Supporting My Bitches

Ok, so... the Belmont Stakes race today. And oh my sweet gravy it was awesome. Let's recap, shall we?

Known as the "Test of a Champion," the most difficult of all the Triple Crown races: Check

Grueling 1.5 mile race, longer than any other in thoroughbred racing: Check

Field consisting of some kickass horses, including Preakness winner Curlin, also known as "The Freak" due to his mad racing skillz: Check

Race that has not been won by a female horse in over one hundred years: Check

Race that was won by a female horse for the first time in over a hundred years: Oh my sweet lord CHECK!

I don't really consider myself a feminist. While I feel pretty strongly about certain issues that would probably fall under the "feminist cause" umbrella, I'm not particularly active in that political regard. That being said, when I saw the "girl" horse beat the bigger, stronger colts I felt a tremendous sense of pride. She wasn't supposed to win that race. Even though she had the breeding, the training, and the physical ability, she was a girl. And by virtue of that fact alone she was discounted by a large number of people. She was just a filly and, as a result, many people felt she didn't have a chance.

I guess those people can suck it.

On Thursday I will jet off to spend Fathers Day weekend with Pops Sparkles. He lives about 30 minutes outside New York city, and he has already made arrangements for us to spend next Saturday at Belmont Park. Even though I'm not much of a gambler I will be laying down the coins for any filly I can find. They could be blind in one eye and missing a hoof, but I don't care. We bitches have to stick together. That's just how we roll.

Some Bird Crapped On My Herbs

Earlier this evening I was sitting outside in the miserable heat bitching to myself about how it's only early June and it's already hot and sticky. I wondered whose bright idea it was to not allow smoking inside the house, but then I remembered it was mine so I had to change the mental subject lest I get pissed off at myself, because that is a lose-lose situation. As I was wondering how my husband would feel about relocating to Siberia, something landed with a plop on my basil plant. Upon closer inspection I could see that a bird just shat on my herbs.

I was not pleased by this turn of events, but what can you do? So I sat and thought about the excretory processes of local wildlife, as you do, and eventually began to wonder how squirrels eliminate their bodily garbage. I've never seen one pop a squat, but obviously they do. Then I thought about the times that I've been sitting outside and felt a light mist fall, but there have been no clouds in the sky. It clearly wasn't rain; could it have been squirrel wee? Oof.

Anyway, the basil situation could have been much worse, of course. It's bird poo, not nuclear fallout. But the idea of some fresh pesto just lost a lot of its appeal.