Hug your mom today!

Sunday morning was a bit rough. I sat in the backseat of Kyle's auto, chewing on a croissant breakfast sandwich. I was horrified as to the damage I was putting my body through, but it was either local gas station food versus standards. Gas station food of course! Kyle, a marketing victim, sipped on revival vitamin water, hoping to be clear of his hungover haze. While Shane, not a breakfasteer, jonesed for a banana so he could take his vitamins. We were all on high maintenance mode, and we were off to the Saratoga Racetrack. It was "t-shirt" day. Oh boy! A free t-shirt! It was the thing to do.

I was fresh to placing bets. Between trifecta, trifecta box, exacta, exacta box, to show, to place, to win, it's all trigonometry to me. My favorite thing is to watch the horses parade by, prior to their race. My bets are solely based on the feistiness of a horse, the color of the jockey's outfit, and, of course, odds. I love the races and I'm not talking NASCAR.

It was elevenish as we dragged a hefty cooler full of beers and sausages from yesterdays barbecue. The sun had already began it's ruthlessness. We joined the mass of locals that funneled their way to the shady spots. There Jill sat amongst a circle of empty lawn chairs. "Do you mind?" My butt halfway in the blue cloth chair. "Sure! Why not." Jill was absolute. Suddenly, I'm swatted, "Get off my chair. This is my chair." Char stood there persistently hitting me with her free t-shirt. We we were circled by empty seats, and Char made a pouting display for her blue lawn chair. Jill and I, made silent eye contact, which pierced, "freak!"

I had no reason to dislike Char until today. Apparently, she disliked horse races, this she did by repeating herself like a senile old lady. That's eleven races which consist of 3 hours? This co-dependent woman is 3 years shy of 60. If she had any manners, she should have allowed father and children to catchup. Instead, she chose to anchor his attention with her infantile demands.

For the first five races, I was on a roll. Sadly, the sixth race broke my winning series. I overheard her smugly say to the Duke, "it's about time Shellie lost." Again, this is a 57 year old going on 6. Creepsterville. We were enjoying our time with dad, winning and losing. The fun came to a halt when wanna be mommy dearest threw a tantrum, "We're going home." "Why? There's two more races?" Kyle adamantly responded. Nevertheless, we wanted to take them out for dinner and drinks. "We never stay for the whole thing," Char huffed incessantly. "So we need those chairs," she pointed to all the chairs, "I need to return those to our neighbors."

The slab of discourtesy was as obscure as Mount Rushmore. The Duke was speechless, he was caught between his children and a nagging nobody. Even the cat caught my tongue. If she hated the races so much, why was she here? Insecure in your relationship perhaps? She suffered from the cling on effect. That's one level up from co-dependency.

I'm no stranger to this obsessively tyrant guilt bearing behavior. I've seen it before. In fact, I know of one unmentionable particular that would make an ideal poster child; an authentic trophy nut case. Snicker. Men, I insist, stop dragging your balls on the ground. Sheesh. What is wrong with you? No one should be treated like a dog. It is pathetically unattractive. No one, men or women, should be ruled by another. Furthermore, they shouldn't tell you who your friends are, where you can go, when to go, what to eat. Get a spine, people, they're free.

Shellie's Proverb: Never make a compromise with a snake.

Sadly, that was our Sunday. It started off being a fantastically fun filled day. The day quickly dwindled into Duke dragging the cooler and chairs behind Queen Bee. We made our way back to mom's condo. It was a pleasant feeling to know that we would be welcome in her home, although an uneasiness loomed in the silence of our car ride home.

Lesson: Young Grasshopper must always root himself into the soil by speaking his worth.