Wet And Wild

Hello World, Happy Mothers Day weekend! The time has definitely come, as they say, to cherish the ladies - whether actual moms, grandmoms, moms-in-law, pet moms, "like-a-mom-to-me," or just general maternal figures in our lives, by whose very presence make our world a better place. All these unsung heroines really want is to be appreciated - although you also can't go wrong with jewelry, flowers, or chocolate, and plenty of it. For all of us cat moms out there, I'm afraid that catnip mice will be the order of the day, which is the feline equivalent of macaroni necklaces and handmade ashtrays, I presume. Oh well, it's the thought that counts, although it's true that it reminds me rather of Dorothy Parker's classic satire about "One Perfect Rose," which she summed up with this acerbic observation - ============================== Why is it no one ever sent me yet One perfect limousine, do you suppose? Ah no, it's always just my luck to get One perfect rose. ============================== In our little corner of Paradise, a leisurely gambol around the property would be sure to delight the senses, with waves of jaunty buttercups leading the way, and azaleas in many colors taking it from there. The wisteria upstairs is going like gangbusters, and the bees are loving every minute of it, I can tell you that. Our neighbor's spirea is ready to put on a show, and around town, the majestic chestnuts and stately dogwoods are visions in creamy white blossoms. At commercial buildings where the landscapers have put in tulips, it looks like Holland itself, with rows of riotous color everywhere you turn, and each vibrant flower bed determined to outshine the next, or know the reason why, yumpin' yiminy. Even better, wooden shoes are not required. Alert readers may recall Bill's heroic efforts to chop the recalcitrant wild rosebush down to size in the backyard, in an attempt to clear out room for the new hydrangea there. He said at the time that, inexplicably, the old hydrangea was actually still out there, under all of the overgrowth, which, like Jimmy Hoffa and Judge Crater before that, we had long since given up on - with regrets once again to the Justice Department. But when I went outside to check up on it, I could find no sign of it, or anything with the slightest resemblance to hydrangea in the clearing, try as I might. Apparently that was because, somehow entirely on its own initiative, the old hydrangea picked itself up and implausibly moved itself about 3-feet over and 2-feet back from where it started, and so it wasn't at all where I expected it to be, especially after all this time in the same place. But sure enough, once you look far enough away from its original starting place, there it is, big as life and fit as a fiddle, and regarding the slovenly wild rosebush with the contempt of a battle-scarred veteran of countless campaigns against the likes of such lesser upstarts that are no match for it. Obviously the old soldier needs no accolades from me, heaven knows, but one can't help but admire its spunk and tenacity in the face of relentless onslaught. And that goes double for the Thomson's gazelles, thank you very much. Meanwhile in sports, the NHL playoffs are down to their final four, and legions of disappointed fans in Edmonton, New York, St. Louis, and Washington DC can only console themselves with their memories, and hopes of better luck next year. The Rangers played Ottawa tough, with several games going into overtime, but ultimately could not prevail against the stronger team. The Capitals rallied from a 3-1 deficit to make a series out of it with the Penguins, but fell to Pittsburgh in the end, while the surprising Nashville continues to prove their unlikely playoff run is no fluke. The way to the finals for them is through Anaheim, while Ottawa and Pittsburgh square off, to decide which two teams will play for Lord Stanley's Cup. Out in the wild and woolly outdoors, it's the gators against the golfers at The Players Championship from Ponte Vedra Beach in Florida, and while I admit that I've yet to see an alligator that can sink a 60-foot putt, I've also never seen a golfer that can outrun a rampaging 12-foot alligator, so my money's on the gators every time. In other sports news, the Kentucky Derby came and went on the first Saturday in May as it does, with all of the hoopla and pageantry that it is so well known for, I dare say. The weather was somewhat changeable there, but utterly failed to subdue the boisterous crowd, or the steady parade of costumes, fancy dresses, spectacular hats, or goofy accessories bedecking the thundering herd on every side. In the midst of that carnival atmosphere, the race itself is almost an afterthought, and a month later, barely anyone would be able to tell you who actually won the darned thing, I'm sure. A crowded field of 20 horses took to the sloppy track at Churchill Downs, with the nominal favorites - Classic Empire, Irish War Cry, and McCraken - going off at 7/1 odds. The announcers had made it plain that there was no one clear favorite for the race, and as much as the bettors had finally settled on Irish War Cry at the last, in the broadcast booth, the commentators picked about 9 different horses between them, so there was obviously no consensus to be had, even among the equine insiders. A media darling was Patch, an unfortunate colt who had lost an eye, but scorning pity, was still prepared to race his heart out on sheer gumption alone. With that many horses all crammed into the same race, you would think that there would be at least one female jockey among the crowd, but not so - oddly enough, this was like the "old (jockey) boy's club" of yesteryear once again. The race itself was unremarkable, and over 175,000 saw Always Dreaming win by more than 2 lengths in what I would disdain to call "the most exciting two minutes in sports," and that's not just the evil spirit of Affirmed talking, believe me. The supposed favorites were never a factor, with only Classic Empire finishing as high as 4th in a race with a sluggish pace of 2:03:59 that would get nobody's attention. One notable exception was poor Thunder Snow, a visitor from the Middle Eastern deserts, who was so spooked at the idea of running on a muddy track, that he flew into a panic out of the starting gate, rearing back with his legs all going in different directions at once, and lurching around in a desperate attempt to find someplace dry to land his hooves. They walked him back to the stables and dried him off, and I can only imagine that with this soggy welcome, it did not endear The Bluegrass State to him in any way, but left him longing for the oil fields and dust storms of Dubai once more. I have the feeling that next time, he'll take a page out of the Dutch Boy's book, and wear his wooden shoes instead. Elle