[goalies-r-us]

Originally Posted by goalerjones

today was spent at Arlington Park racetrack...I started out by winning the 1st and 3rd races by betting the favorites, but overall I barely came out ahead, yet I got to spend the whole day with my dad doing something he loves, and getting him out of gardening for my mom...

This brought to mind a "viewpoint" (letter to the editor type thing) that was published in our local paper a while back. Your parents might get a chuckle out of this:

Wife gone mad -- a treatise in how not to garden, even if you mean well
Friday, June 27, 2008
BY JERRY HOWELL

I just don't get it. Gardening, that is. Gardeners till the soil and lovingly tend their plants and flowers. Words like "organic" and "holistic" drip from their lips like honey. "Look at me!" they say, "I can pronounce chrysanthemum and spell rhododendron!"

But then just ask them. Ask them why they toil in the sun, breaking their backs.

"Because it's so therapeutic!" they gush.

Right. The reason they need therapy is because deep down, gardeners are violent people.

Take my wife.

Not long ago, Liz went out of town to a wedding in California. This afforded me the opportunity to drink beer, watch sports on TV and miss the hamper with my underwear. Not this time. Instead, I decided to prove myself the caring, sensitive husband my wife longed for. I would surprise her. Surprises are important in a marriage. So says Dr. Phil.

"You're so predictable," my wife has complained.

No one wants to be called boring, so my surprise had to be grandiose. I would replant her garden! I worked my butt off. I yanked out vines, pulled weeds and stuck in a couple hundred bedding plants. For 10 hours I sweated. As the sun sank, I admired my handiwork. "Boy, she won't believe this!" I thought.

Indeed, she would not.

When she returned, I ushered her into the back yard. "What do you think of your surprise?" I asked proudly.

I could sense something was amiss. Her jaw dropped. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes flashed. Her teeth clinched. Her knuckles whitened. Her butt cheeks tightened.

"What have you done with my perennials?"

This was not going to go well.

"You destroyed years of my hard work!" Steam was now escaping from her ears and I could hear a whistling noise, like a boiling tea kettle.

"Uh, I thought they were weeds. They looked like weeds..." my voice trailed off.

To say I was ripped a new one would be an understatement. I would have been better off caught in the embrace of my best friend's wife, my wife's best friend, or maybe both at the same time.

But like all storms, even Hurricane Katrina, this, too, passed. I threw myself on the sword and went perennial plant shopping with my wife. And yes, a couple days later I even managed to get lovey-dovey with her. Nevertheless, I knew she would reference my gardening debacle for a long time to come.

Me (gasping on death bed): "It was sure... nice of the grandkids... to send... those flowers..."

Liz: "Speaking of flowers, do you remember when you pulled out all my perennials back in aught-eight? I came back from the wedding and you had destroyed my garden. Do you remember that, Jerry? You didn't even know the difference between weeds and a mature perennial garden that I slaved at for years. You know I loved to garden because it was good therapy and... say, Jerry... you seem to have stopped breathing. Anyway, my garden was my pride and joy and....."

Memories last forever with women. They file past transgressions in their brains according to the Dewey decimal system, and are capable of retrieving them at any time. These memories are permanently fused into their brains with emotion. Emotion, you see, is critical to the formation of memories. Men, on the other hand, forget everything. This is because they just don't care.

What's the lesson here? For the love of God, stay away from your wife's garden. Instead, play some golf. Drink some beer. Or maybe run to Detroit and take in a ballgame. As your wife slaves away, remember, there is no need to be wracked by guilt. Instead, think of all that therapy she's getting. When you get home, just be sure to compliment her on her garden, especially the chrysanthemums.

Those are perennials, right?

Jerry Howell is a resident of Portage.