Kentucky Derby:

GWH calls me on a Friday evening to inform me that he’s “betting on the ponies” the next day.

“Not without me, you’re not.”

“What? You really want to go to the horse races?”

“You bet your ass I do. Oh wait, I don’t want to invite myself,” I tell him.

“Sounds like you already did. Let’s go.”

We head over to Manor Downs the next day with Waldo and his friend The Jeweler in tow. I have images of Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey decked out in their finery and sipping mint juleps in the stands. Okay, I knew Manor Downs wasn’t going to be that nice but…yeah, that could not be more wrong. There’s a track but the ponies are on tiny TVs. It’s kind of like we’re hanging out in a big carport with some betting windows. Hey, off-track betting—you rock! There are two beer stands where a selection of Bud Light and Miller Lite are available in large plastic cups. The cups have Dos Equis logos on them, which is just kind of a tease. I’m hoping I never have to pee, because I do NOT want to know what the bathroom is like.

Probably the coolest thing about the day, however, is the fact that GWH is sporting a “Yuppie Pricks” t-shirt with an “I Voted” sticker.

I survey the crowd. It seems that everyone is doing one of four things: (1) wearing a University of Texas shirt, hat or pants (2) drinking (3) smoking (4) yelling at a TV. Yeehaw! It’s my kind of place! Waldo decides that we’re hanging with “The Grotesques” and the name sticks.

“This is in my blood,” he says, staring at the TVs slightly wild-eyed.

“I feel like we’re doing something illegal,” I tell GWH, slipping him a twenty to make some bets for me.

“In some states you are,” he responds, marking up our race sheet with a pink pen I’ve found in my purse.

The first few races are training for Waldo, The Jeweler and me. I calculate that the last time I was at the races I was about eight. And at that time, my dad placed my bets for me. So, I guess it’s true that I’m looking for my father in my man—he’s a drinker and my bookie! GWH keeps placing the bets, convincing me to go with crazy trifecta box bets until I lose those and prove that picking the horse with the best name and the worst odds to show is the way to go.

“Damn, early money goes fast,” GWH laments as he riffles through his bills. The big race is coming up, and he turns to one of our new friends, Grotesque One.

“What’s the secret to the Derby?” he asks.

“Shit, there’s 20 horses, man. Bet and hope,” he answers, dragging on a Marlboro Light.

I put my money on Spanish Chesnut and go to get refill beers for me and the guys.

“You have lips that would make a lollipop happy,” I hear from behind me in line.

I turn around and say innocently, “Were you talking to me?”

“You know it, girl. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

I think any compliment that needs to be called out as such is probably not a very good one. I grab my overflowing crap beer and hurry back to the table. The big one is about to start.

Spanish Chesnut pulls up to the front of the pack and I ignore both the signs warning against profanity and GWH’s disapproving look as I scream, “Run, motherfucker, RUN! RUN YOU BITCH!” I have no idea how much money I’ll win off my two-dollar bet, but hey, it’s the principle. I get very upset when I don’t win.

Spanish Chesnut, alas, does not come in, but my other horse does—Closing Argument. Whee! Four bucks for me! My bookie lets me keep it rather than reimbursing him for all the betting he’s done. Cool. Now we have a wedding to go to. And oh, shit, somewhere along the way I got drunk. Waldo and I debate The Grotesques and the riff-raff at Manor Downs versus The G&S Lounge.

“There’s a lot more riffraff at the G&S,” Waldo says.

“And you don’t win any money there—you just spend it,” I point out.

Time to get to that wedding. Step on it, GWH—Waldo and I have to pee.

The Preakness:

The morning of The Preakness begins with a mean hangover. I’m facedown in bed hugging a pillow when GWH comes in and reminds me we have somewhere to go.

“Uhhhhhhh…” I mutter. “Need…fries.”

GWH fuels me with a grilled cheese, fries, and some jalapeno poppers from Fran’s. Ahh. We hook up with his buddy GotsGame and head to the track. We’re like old pros at this point, so GWH grabs a handicapper sheet for two of the tracks, I hand him the pink pen and a twenty-dollar bill.

“Are you okay?” he asks, looking at me with concern.

It’s damn hot and my hangover has kicked into full throttle. “I’m fine. I just need a hair clip and a beer.”

Hair and beer both secured, I give GWH my first horse choice. The beers and the bets start to flow. My hangover is fighting dirty though, and GWH keeps checking on me. I must be completely green. I find a seat next to GotsGame while GWH places our latest bets. We watch The Grotesques milling about, waving tickets and cigarettes.

“You know…I don’t care what happens to me in Vegas…how drunk I am…how many drugs I’ve taken…NOTHING…NOTHING could make me purchase a pink shirt with white tigers on it,” he points out as we watch one guy parade around in his Vegas souvenir.

“Dude, you know what’s even worse about that?” I ask. “He got the tanktop version.”

GotsGame takes the plunge with another bet, lamenting the fact his luck has been rotten all day. Meanwhile, GWH has hit the ATM and I’ve actually won two. That’s right! I’m working on breaking even, people.

A Grotesque is staggering my way and I smile at him. I figure it won’t kill me to be nice. And plus, how many gorgeous and sassy girls have smiled at this poor guy lately?

He sits next to me. Ah shit.

“Have you bet on the big one yet?”

“Nope not yet. My boyfriend places all my bets,” I say, and smile sweetly again.

The My Boyfriend Loves Weather works like a charm, and this Grotesque is gone in the next two minutes. When GWH and GotsGame return, I tell them of my run-in. “There he is.”

GWH follows my gaze. “I know that guy.”

Maybe we’re not as far removed from The Grotesques as we’d like to think.

“I’ve bet this one six ways from Sunday,” GWH says when it’s finally time for The Preakness. He has about seventy tickets in his hand. “But I’ve been betting like a fuckwad all day.”

The thrill of victory sweeps over us again as the race starts and we’re screaming at our horses to PULL, dammit, PULL! I’ve made four bets on this race, and what do you know? One of them comes in! I jump up and down, hangover forgotten, new buzz kicking in and laugh. GWH shakes his head sadly, throws down his tickets and hugs me.

“You even make losing money fun.”

Belmont Stakes:

GWH is out of town for the third and final race. I head over to Lady Butterfly’s house to watch the Belmont on TV, drink mint juleps and then go to Retama for some high-class betting. Lady Butterfly mixes up a mean drink. Her husband K-Met creates some delicious appetizers and then concocts some lovely ginger-watermelon lemonade. Lady Butterfly dresses it up with some raspberry-infused vodka, then puts my new favorite band Snow Patrol on the stereo. I’m coming over here more often!

After the Belmont, Richie Rich comes over and offers to drive us to Retama in his classy Range Rover. Damn, this car is sweet! Lady Butterfly and K-Met pack up some Tecates for the road. Not only does she have beers for us, but she’s cut up limes. These people are unstoppable.

At Retama, it’s time to find the bathroom and then another beer stand. Lady Butterfly maintains that even Miller Lite tastes good with a lime in it. We grab a few of these and then place some bets. I make the GWH mistake of betting a trifecta box. You would have thought I had learned my lesson before, but nooooo. I lose out and decide that GWH will not get a Retama Park shot glass unless I win.

The boys convince us to go look at the horses, as if this helps make decisions on which horse to bet. Whatever. Just look at the names, people! Lady Butterfly and I are checking out horse number four when we realize we’re being checked out as well. Ewww. The jockey practically breaks his neck as the horse passes us. Don’t fall off, there, dude.

“He loved you guys!” K-Met raves. “I’m betting on number four!”

“Are you kidding?” I ask, slurping some Miller Lite ‘n’ Lime. “That guy is so not focused on racing right now.”

I choose two horses to show and we line up at the fence to watch the race. My horses don’t show, and of course number four ends up at the end of the pack. Silly K-Met. We told him not to bet on that guy. And silly me. I cannot make a bet today to save my life.

Since it’s the last race and I haven’t made any money, Lady Butterfly and K-Met decide this one’s all on me. “Okay,” I say, giving K-Met two dollars. “Let’s pool our money—this one is Hooks Runnin’. Horse eleven. I can feel it!” I mean, come on, we’re Longhorn fans. Hook ‘em Horns…and, oh yeah, she’s favored. That’s right. I’m an expert. That’s why I’m twenty dollars down right now. Thank God I make the sissy bets.

Lady Butterfly and I get another delicious Miller Lite ‘n’ Lime to share and gossip while the boys place bets. They find us just as the race is about to start. K-Met is all worked up about how he couldn’t find us. He couldn’t remember what horse to bet on so he put it all on number nine. The horses are off and Hooks Runnin’ takes first place.

I beat K-Met with my program.

“How could you forget?! We talked about this!”

K-Met looks pained. “Dude, I suck.”

The regular racing season is almost over. But thoroughbreds start in August…how ever will I fit in horse racing AND football? Another reason to love fall.

-Shakira 06.22.05