It's nearly August, time for my annual Saratoga post! I looked back on what I've written here over the years to mark the occasion, and found this from 2002, this from 2003, this from 2006 and this from 2007. I also have an essay from 1998, written in the dark ages (ie, pre-ejournal), I'll have to upload it to GBP before I can link it here. So I guess I can't call it an annual post, some years I do my best to ignore it.

This year opening day passed and I was too preoccupied with other things to focus on it. My class has been competing with consulting. Plus, yardwork and all the heavy lifing are entirely my responsibility now. I'm blue over Ande's death. And of course, Prankstergate trumped opening day in the news coverage (that's no mean feat). I did have a flash of pleasure that it rained, though.

Something that I can't stand about the Capital District is the obsession with horse racing. There isn't one thing about it that charms me, not the hats (and I love fancy hats), not the gambling aspect (I don't even buy scratch-off lottery tickets), not the nightlife (and that's another thing I love, or at least used to, before I got too sleepy), not the pink sheet that the newspapers come wrapped in (it has been handy for housebreaking my various puppies, though), and especially not the gushing over it everywhere (just shut up, OK?).

The only thing I do like are the horses, and that's the reason why I hate every other aspect of it. For the gushers it's about how it is the "summer thing to do." Glamorous, fun, fashionable. Taking vacation days, or absolutely having to be there opening day are considered as legitimate as your doctor appointment or kid's recital or tournament (this is reminding me why I don't miss the 9-5 world).

It certainly isn't about the horses. If it was about the horses, the track would be closed because it is so dangerous. That part doesn't make the headlines, it is a passing mention (if that).

This weekend I will take a picture of Cinderella and post it here. She is my mother's rescued retired thoroughbred. Cindy wasn't her race horse name, that's what my mother calls her, because she was so pitiful, but so beautiful, when she rescued her.