-- well, I was a first year associate at a law firm, and we went to Hollywood Park as a summer associate outing, but some of us were fantastically late to the races because we'd had to stay late to work on the final cite-checking on this brief. And I'm pretty sure the brief was in the Boy Scouts case where they were trying to exclude an atheist scout. And NOW I'm back at the horse races right after Boy Scouts announced they're letting in girls. So, yeah, it was Some Time Ago.
I put it on my list because it was fun back in the early 90s, and also because I've lived this close to Santa Anita Park and HAVEN'T BEEN, and it was starting to feel a little wrong. This was some sort of local culture experience that I felt I needed to suck up.
Rashida and I researched this greatly, and found a deal on package that gave us private(ish) box seats, race programs, lunch entrees, drinks, and souvenir pint glasses. We showed up early because we didn't exactly know where to go. This turned out to be a good idea.
We showed our tickets; we got hand stamped; we got in; we were directed to go up the ramp and to the right and someone would tell us where we had to go. And even THIS astonishingly vague set of directions was soooo wrong. We actually find the box seating -- and then learn that we have to go to Will Call to turn our package tickets into actual tickets and food vouchers and all that other crap. Not at the entrance we went in; but the other entrance. We finally make our way to Will Call (getting a decent tour of the club house in the process) and back to the box seats. This time, now that we have tickets, we are directed to our box. It's in the front row of boxes, against the rail. There is a woman in it. She actually belongs in the box next to us, but thought she'd spread out since there was nobody in our box. She seemed polite enough about it -- gathered her stuff and moved back to her own damn box next to us, although her husband(?) was sort of "maybe stay out of other people's boxes?" about it.
We sit. We enjoy our food voucher food and start looking at the racing program to figure out which horses we would bet on, were we betting. There are nine races today, so we're in no hurry. Particulary when the first race is a maiden claiming race and (to my great surprise, and Rashida's astonishment) I actually knew what that meant. (Thank you, Dick Francis novels.) First race was actually won by a longshot. This was useful, in the sense that it proved, right up front, that the "Handicapper's Hints" in the racing program didn't really mean shit. Our best under-educated guess was probably just as likely to be correct as Handicapper's Hints. (Or as correct as the $100/bet gambler who had joined the folks in the box next to us, who, halfway through the afternoon, loudly regalled his friends -- and everyone in the vicinity -- with the tale of how he won $900 bucks on one race only because the "idiot" in the teller's booth accidentally placed his bet on the wrong horse. So now he's up $500 on the day. And while his takeaway was "Yay, $500!" my takeaway was, "So you were down $400 before that race and would have been down another hundred if she hadn't made a mistake. So maybe we shouldn't listen to your brilliant racing wisdom?")
Rashida and I ultimately placed wagers on, I think, two races -- including the California Distaff Handicap, the one stakes race on the program. We each ended the day a few bucks up. (Much less than the idiots next to us, but possibly better as a percentage of what we'd bet.) Here's us, with our little wager tickets for the big race.
For which Rashida picked the winner. Yay!
Here's what I learned about going to the races at Santa Anita. It is very much (VERY MUCH) a class system. You could get the $5 infield tickets where you can stand around the infield and buy hot dogs and cokes. At the other end, terrace seats -- behind glass, table service, gotta dress nice. We were solidly in second class. Box seating with TV screens in each box, but open to the air; counter service, but higher quality food than the food court (I had a corned beef sandwich -- sorry, I had Santa Anita's Famous Corned Beef Sandwich, which was hand carved in front of me and really quite tasty; Rashida had fresh tacos). Our beverage coupons were good for a wine or "craft beer." That's the class we were in, Craft Beer Class.
You needed a hand stamp to get up to our level. Because Class System.
We ran downstairs between races to grab our free pint glasses at the gift shop. On the way, we had to stop because the horses were parading out to the starting gate, and actually going down a path we had to cross. It was sort of neat watching them go by up close. (The infield patrons don't have our nice seats in the shade, or access to the craft brews, but they definitely get to see the horses more up close and personal. We made a note that if we ever go back, we should wander downstairs more just to see the horses between races.) Grabbed the glasses, headed back upstairs. Showed our hand stamps, went back to our seats.
Some tall pretty blond woman in front of us walks right in, doesn't show her hand stamp. Not questioned.
Rashida and I discuss privilege, and tall pretty blond ladies who probably get in a lot of places without showing hand stamps. You know how sometimes men tell women they should smile more, and women get offended by it? This is a woman who is used to getting what she wants with that smile. I decide to hate her, just on principle.
Rashida and her husband have a little girl -- a cute little 7-year-old. We've taken her to tea. She's sweet and quiet and likes princesses and reading. I like her. And here's me and Rashida, talking about Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts and pretty blond privileged ladies. And also rich kids who study dressage, and mothers who are as annoyingly clique-ish as teenagers. And I think about the unlimited options a 7-year-old girl ought to have -- and how amazingly difficult parenting one must be.
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