Happy Belated Travers' Day!

What in the name of monkey feet is she talking about??

Sometimes I forget I don't carry you all around in my pocket to see and experience everything I do.

I also forget there is a world beyond Saratoga...

...despite the fact that for 22 of my 29 years I was actually in that world.

My friends, this place in which I reside is not your typical small town.  Sure, we have restaurants you can barely fit your entire body into and boutiques that sell art and tattoo permanent makeup onto your face all in the same place.

We got ourselves a racetrack; the most historic racetrack in the world.

And this track is home to the longest running sporting event in the country: the Travers Grade I stakes race worth $1 million and the rights to be in the running for horse of the year.

(scroll down to comments for Corey's correction of my statement above, rest assured, there will be one.)

We get something like 45,000 people for the day, including a few celebrities.  Corey and I have run into Bobby Flay, one of the guys from the Sopranos, Bill Parcells, John Walsh, Rod Stewart*, etc.

Every year to celebrate Corey and I throw a pre-Travers party where we invite everyone and their mothers (literally, we had moms there) to hang out in our driveway to eat pastries, drink mimosas and try to avoid being pestered by the dog.

I try to spruce up the asphalt with a few flowery table clothes and flower arrangements.  Last year I managed to swipe some beautiful purple loosestrife from the side of the highway in the cover of darkness.  This year I went legit and swiped flowers from my own yard.

We eat and chat and then head down for the races.

We usually have a story to tell afterward.  For several years it was, "Can you believe how hard it rained?!"

Then there was, "Can you believe all the dang bees?!"

Last year, "Can you believe Betsy fell and had to spend the day in the hospital?!"

This year, "Can you believe we let Jennifer eat the crackers out of the dog's bowl?!"

I really get a kick out of this one.

See, after the party was over and we started to clean up I put a handful of leftover crackers in the dog's bowl because the trash was still downstairs and I didn't think five crackers would drastically affect O-dog's waistline.  Corey took them out.  Apparently our dog does not eat crackers.  He set them on the counter and we both walked out of the room.

Enter Jennifer.

Five minutes pass.

Enter Stacie.

"Ohmigoshthosecrackerswereinthedog'sbowl!!"

She had eaten all but two of them.

Poor thing was horrified.

And disgusted.

I told everyone I know.

And then we headed down to the races.  Another eventful year.

...

*It was actually one of the Vice Presidents at Corey's office who just happens to look exactly like Rod Stewart. 

Horse Sense and Dirty Work

I didn't intend for my morning adventure to be a post topic.  I actually had no idea what I was getting myself into when I agreed to meet two of Corey's friends at 6:30am for coffee and a tour of the innards of the Saratoga horse racing facilities.

Ohmigoodnessgraciousitwassostinkincool!!

...play it cool, Stace.  Play it cool.

I mean, it was ok.

Yeah, we got to meet some big shot trainers.

Chatted with the owner of West Point Thoroughbreds.

Said hello to itsy bitsy jockeys.

No big whoop.

Thanks to Corey's reporter friend, Claire, we came within inches of at least half a million horses.

Slight exaggeration, I apologize.

On the million part.

Because we were within mere inches. 

I was able to resist petting each one (although barely) thanks to a grumpy rider who scolded Corey for swatting at a bee.  I figured if the horsies are startled by "BEE!!" dancing they certainly aren't going to like a hand darting out in front of their faces with a crazy person attached to it.

So instead I picked at my lip.

We walked all around the barns and I was able to see the "real" side of racing.

Corey will tell you, eyes rolled and totally honest, I bug the crap out of him when it comes to how horse people treat their investments.  Because really, you don't races horses because you like to see them run fast or you think it's funny when they snort across the finish line.  You race them to win money.  And I like to know that they are treated like living, breathing creatures should be.

And as far as I could tell, they were.  Especially by the trainer at this stable.  The dears had their baths and their treats.  They got out to stretch their legs and take a leisurely stroll through the grounds.  In other words, they live better than I do.

Girl's gettin' a manicure.  Or is that a pedicure?

Don't even get me started on how beautiful these suckers are.  The dang things are so long and lean, I could watch them for hours.

I did watch them for hours.  We were there until 9am.

Work?

Eh.

Why work when you can ogle Rachel Alexandra?

Work it girlfriend.  Work it.

I eventually did make it in to work, with the excuse of an ingrown toenail or something quasi-believable, where I stunk up the office with the smell of dirty hay and horse poop still on my skin and in my hair.

...haven't been able to place the dirty feet smell, though.  i'm not wearing my stinky shoes.

So thank you, thank you, thank you Claire for smuggling us into the "other side" and giving us an experience we might have never had as simple spectators.

Or as they say on the backstretch: gracias.

...At The Races

Ho-hum.  Just another Monday, the start of a long, grueling work week full of angry constituents, cranked up AC, and PB&J sandwiches....

Oh, but it's not just another Monday for me.

I'm off today!!

Oh Lordy how great it is to fall asleep Sunday night knowing I have nowhere to be the next morning except The Old Man's Cafe with my dirty hair and mascara crusties to chomp on the real egg mcmuffin while still half asleep.

This weekend Corey's family is in town for their annual Day at the Races, times two.  It's a glorious two days full of the best people watching you could ever imagine.  Picture this: beer guzzling mountain man breathing down the neck of snooty old lady in Prada pumps.  It totally happens.

me and pal Alyssa

Then there's Barbara Bush's cousin wearing kelly green slacks with a salmon colored blazer who we have lovingly nicknamed Pastel Bob.  His cat is buried in the infield.

The track draws 'em all.

Folks, we live two blocks from the most historic race track in the world.

I'll let that sink in for a moment...

...

.......

Corey may laugh himself into a coma when he reads this, but I really, really love this place.

"But you're NEVER there!!"

At this point he'll be rolling on the ground, blowing snot bubbles, eyes rolling in the back of his head.

No, I don't go often, but only because it is absolutely exhausting.  When you're a racing fanatic like Corey, you have no problem pacing, and wandering, and walking out to the paddock to check out the horses' feet, and meeting up with your buds to complain about jockey Mike Luzzi, and jumping and yelling when you're horse is second with a furlong to go, and pacing again.

But when you're there to look at all the pretty hats, seven hours of racing in 90 degree weather becomes a bit tedious.

That's why I enjoy these family weekends.  Corey can be fanatical, and I can people watch and chat about the horses with my in-laws.

So, on to day two.  You all enjoy your work days, while I silently laugh at you.

Aaaaaaand they're OFF....

...at Saratoga! Yes, welcome to the 100-and-something season of horse racing at this, the most, or maybe it's the second most, historic race track in the country!!...or world...or whatever.

In this relationship, one of us is a racing fanatic and the other likes to get dressed up and look at fancy hats (that's me).

June:

"Corey! It's almost here!!"

"I know! The track is only 29 days away!!!"

July:

"I will help you right after the track is over."

"A week before the wedding?!?"

July 28:

"This is the best time of the year!"

"You mean, besides our wedding?"

"Oh yeah, of course!"

No, really. This is a good thing. Now is the time I get to push through a few "questionable" practices without any resistance from the distracted groom.

Like little finger cymbals for all the guests. So, when we say our "I do's" we'll hear a wave of tin chirps. Romantic...right?!

Or maybe fish bowl centerpieces.

Or a fun new dance where everyone grooves in their socks!

Am I trying to make Corey regret his choice in priorities? hehehehehe....no.