A Job In The Hand Is Worth Two In The Bush…

One thing I've noticed this Christmas Carriage Driving Season is the increase in the numbers of "Street Performers" out early this year. I guess it's a sign of the economic times. Usually the people who position themselves around Temple Square, playing holiday songs on an instrument and setting out a kettle for spare change appear much closer to Christmas. This past weekend, besides Patrick, who is out year round sitting on the sidewalk playing Mormon hymns on a harmonica (badly) I witnessed the following:

Jason, bagpipe player (an a good one, too) decked out in his Kilt, socks with Scottish garters, Santa coat and hat. Okay, he's a regular and occasionally comes out the rest of the year.

A girl playing Christmas carols on a violin.

A young man singing acapella.

Three middle school aged boys playing band instruments (Sax, trumpet, trombone).

A twenties-something boy and girl on guitar and vocals.

A woman and her two children displaying religious themed artwork (pencil sketches).

I see this as an indication that folks are struggling. And I know how tough it is out there because I've spent the past month helping The Kid carpet bomb local businesses with job applications. She applied, and applied, and applied and got zip.

Then a shoe store hired her— for part-time temporary seasonal help.

Part-Time Temporary Seasonal?

Yes, that means she was hired to work Black Friday.

She was hired to work one day.

So she took that job, worked that day, and returned to "Hunting" mode. Although they did inquire if she was interested in working more. She said yes. They never called.
She got a call from a restaurant the Sunday before Thanksgiving, went in for an interview, and figured she didn't get the job. Last Saturday I got a call, she was hired on as a hostess.

So, YAY!

She worked Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Before work on Wednesday we stopped by the shoe store to return a nametag and marker she mistakenly taken home with her.
The manager said, "Why are you bringing these back? Didn't we hire you on?"

She said, "No one called me."

So now she's working at the shoe store on Friday, again, and is going to have a talk with the manager about exactly what he means by "Hired on." Hired on temporarily, to be let go in January, or Hired On as in "you now have a job" hired on. Then she has to decide which job she wants to keep. Because she's not working them both. Because I won't let her. She still needs to be a teenager once in a while.

So I know how hard it is out there, and I hope that the folks who are circling the downtown area trying to scrape together some spare change by performing can get a little love. The time The Kid played seasonal music on her clarinet she did it for funzies— although she did rake in $11.00.

The only problem I see is this: If she keeps the Hostess job she needs a pair of black flip flops (which they wear with white socks to give impression they are sporting traditional Zōri sandals along with their "Kimono" which is NOT really a Kimono but a robe) and finding black flip flops, or ANY kind of flip flop in December in Utah?

Not much chance of that.

Tis The Season

I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving, and for you non-United States visitors, I hope you had an exceptionally happy Thursday.

It was opening weekend here and I've been a little bit busy. My younger brother came to visit for the holiday, and I'm forever in his debt for finally coercing my
wireless printer to print wirelessly. I don't know if he used threats, black magic or his excellent Ninja skills, but whatever he did to it, I can now print very important things like e mail, jokes, and rambling, subversive manifestos from the comfort of my couch. I used to be required to slap the battery into my laptop, walk into to my office (a distance of about 30 feet) and plug it in to print stuff. No longer am I tethered to a USB cable.

(Long Sigh) Ahhh, I can almost hear my muscles atrophying now.

Friday night I drove Liberty. She is our only mare, and she tends to be a bit tweeky. Also, being a mare, she pees differently than the geldings do. This means when she has to go, she goes backwards as opposed to downwards. So, when she urinates her stream ends up filling the poop bag. As the poop bag fills up with both #1 and #2, this makes a creation we call a "Shit Slurpee." Then, the combination of tweeky, jiggy mare and shit slurpee bloom into a sloppy mess on the front of my white carriage that can best be compared to a two color (green on a white background) Jackson Pollock-ish work of avant garde delight.

The wreath that adorns the front of my carriage will never be the same again.

I would have taken a picture of it but it was late and I was tired. Plus I forgot. And since then I've hosed down the front of my carriage so it's lost to the world now. But don’t fret; it's early in the season and I'm sure another chance will come around.

Saturday I drove Cletus, one of my favorite co-workers. We were a little slower on Saturday than we were on Friday. After we returned to the barn and were gathered in the office waiting for the rest of the employees to return, Coco, who had forgotten to bring his drivers sheet out, showed us all how he kept track of both his rides and his credit card sale reference number.



Yes, it's a bit provincial, but it works. And at least he used a marker, as opposed to, say, a razor blade.

Belle's Personal Assistant and her spouse, better known as Carriage Clause, both former employees of our company, stopped by to visit and join us for breakfast. BPA returned to the barn with the drivers, pushing my friend ~A~ into the passenger compartment of her carriage and driving Liberty from South Gate back to the barn. Bart, Belle's brother/former team mate, And BPA's most favored draft horse (after Belle, of course) wasn't available for her to drive but when he got into the barn she gave him big hugs. Like
Stacey with Wesson, BPA wants Bart to come live with her when it's his turn to retire.







Sunday night I worked with Jerry.


I haven't driven Jerry for a while and man oh man has he put on weight! I almost couldn’t get him between the carriage shafts. Talk about a
w i d e
l o a d.

It was painfully slow Sunday, but it typically is the first Sunday of the season. And at least the weather held— no rain or snow all weekend.

On one of my trips around Temple Square a man parking his SUV next to a "No Parking" sign asked, "Is it alright if I park here?" I said, "Sure, that "No Parking" sign is purely for esthetics."



Wease is coming down from Northern Utah to stay with me and drive for a few days. She's going to be doing this every week until New Years so it should be fun. She brings with her three dogs, making a total of five at our house while she's here. Plus she, along with all of her dogs, is female, which totally tips the estrogen factor in our house into the black. Mr. Slave Driver and Border Collie extraordinaire, Cowboy, might opt for a hotel room. Or at least move out into the travel trailer for the duration. It should make for an interesting time.

Weather Report

It snowed last night, about an inch or so out here in the 'burbs, and I'm hoping that it's "done" for a while. Although the ski resorts could use some weather love. Being the selfish person I am it would please me immensely if it stayed in the 50's from now until Christmas Day, then it could snow like hell. But, since I have yet to learn how to master the weather (and if I ever do I sure as shit won’t be a carriage driver, I'll move on to practicing World Domination) I guess I'll just have to be pleased with what we have instead of what I want, and what we have this week is good stuff. You know, considering that it's the Rocky Mountains and all.

At least that's what *they* predict.

Mr. Slave Driver's business is construction, and mine is an outdoorsy type job also, so we both watch the forecast. Although I must admit that many times I fall asleep during the local news so I ask Mr. SD to give me a recap. Which he does, unless he too has succumbed and misses it. It doesn’t really matter in the long run because all four local stations give four different predictions so it's all a crap shoot anyway. Which is why I bring all my gear with me every night, just in case. There are few things worse than being cold and wet and knowing that you will remain cold and wet for three more hours and it’s nobody's fault but your own because you were not prepared.

Anyway, I'm back to working on novel number two, which is a continuation of novel number one, and it's probably stupid to be working on it because if novel number one doesn’t get sold then, one might ask, why bother? But I've made sure that it is a stand alone, and anyone who has not read #1 would be right up to speed on #2. Kind of like The Da Vinci Code was the second book and Angels and Demons was the first, but without all the symbols and religious stuff. And no albinos, although there is mention of a "lethal white" in the first chapter.

So all you all have a great Thanksgiving and I'll be back later this week. I really have nothing to say right now, so let me know if there's a subject you want to hear about and maybe I'll write about that.

Xmas, Schmexmas...

Yesterday after we took MBA out for lunch I mentioned in passing to Ro that I would be in on Monday to strip my carriage of the rose theme and pimp it for Christmas. Later she called and coerced me into coming in on Thursday to do my changeover because the company owner wanted to ship it off Friday for a specialty. That way, since the owner likes the way I decorate, she gets a decorated carriage and doesn’t have to do the work herself. She told Ro to bribe me with a free lunch.

Ok, no problem, I'm a company gal. And I'm easily had; dangle food in front of me and I'm not too proud to admit I will follow you. Besides, they don't let any old idiot do specialties, so I know at least my carriage would be in good hands.

So, looking over my blogs from last year I showed you my
before carriage and my after carriage, then I gave explicit directions on how to add a sound system to my ride, so I guess today I will show you all the stuff I strip off and replace with Christmas decorations to make my carriage one of the most requested ones on the block.
So, step 1: remove the usual stuff; rose swag that goes around the bottom and along the sides, plus the two bouquets that sit up by the back rest.




Step 2: add the fake evergreen garland imbedded with lights.




Step 3: add evergreen swag on top and around driver's seat, dash and sides.

Step 4: Add other chotchkies like the big blue light bulb ornament I got at ShopCo last year after Christmas (I buy all my decorations after Christmas when they’re 75-90% off. Because I'm smart. And cheap.) Top it off with a festive wreath.




So even thought it is now decorated, I won't actually be driving it until next weekend.



Sorry this is dry and dull, but I'm still under the influence of drugs and the haze doesn't allow a lot of creativity.

Ouchie Wha-Wha…

My friend Stacey over at Jumping-Percheron got whapped in the leg by her horse and I'm sure that will leave a mark. Over here, I haven't been hurt by a horse since Annie jerked me and pulled a muscle in my shoulder which hurt like hell for a week or two.

Right now I'm suffering, and mind you I have a very high tolerance for pain, so when I say suffering it means a lot. Right now, for example, I am sitting in a chair that I never sit in to type because I cannot get up off of the couch I usually work at.

What the heck did I do? I don't know, but I've had it before. It's called Costochondritis. There is a spot on the left side of my chest that feels like I've gotten hit by a National League Fastball. Imagine, if you will, that every time you move, lean, twist, sneeze, cough, or breathe, someone sticks two or three forks in the spaces between your ribs. Rusty forks. With metal spurs.

Anyway, I went to the doctor and got lots of drugs so I can kick this things ass before Black Friday, when I'll be working all day long and on and on for 5 days straight.

I.must.get.well.now.

So sorry this is a short blog (in fact for many of you it's probably a relief) but the meds have kicked in and I must rest.

Have a great week.

Ignite Your Passion

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
on his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done and he did it.

—Edgar A. Guest

It Couldn't Be Done

The above quote is particularly poignant for me because at 5:30 mountain time on November 12, 2009, I submitted my first novel, The Carriage Trade, to a literary agent.

Now, I know that this comes to no surprise to those of you who follow Confessions of a Slave Driver, as I occasionally blog about the trials and tribulations of being Pre-Published (yes, that is the term those of us who have not yet hit the shelves of Barnes and Nobel prefer. It sounds so much nicer than "Unpublished, and I have to tell you, I hate the term "Aspiring Writer." I feel it denotes "wanting" as opposed to "doing". I don't want to write, I write. Period.)

Anyway, the best way to get me to do something is to tell me that I can't. When I started writing my novel I did it because I had a story in my head and I needed to get it out of there before I went insane. Now, some may argue that by then I was well past the point of no return on the whole insanity thing, but nevertheless, I put the story on paper first, then I went about learning how to write a novel. I am infamous for doing things bass ackward.

So after years of writing and rewriting to fix all the things I did wrong, I finally submitted the finished piece and can move on the next work in process I have sitting on my laptop.

Now, you may ask, why the heck did Slave Driver invest the last three years in something for which she did not get paid and may never get published? Neglecting her family (Yeah, it toughened them up and taught them to be self-sufficient…) Living in a dirty house (nobody cares anyway, and I've never been much of a clean freak) not to mention all the drinking I've missed out on…Okay, to be honest, writing never inhibited me from partaking in the occasional adult beverage. In fact, I'd say that drinking while writing is my forte. I find a glass or three of wine helps to lubricate my creative gears, so to speak. So I guess that doesn't count. But writing is a solitary endeavor, so it's not like I could do it in a bar surrounded by my partners in crime friends. Which brings us back to the original question of why?

Because, it's something that I'm passionate about. That's why even when few of you come and visit, and even fewer of you comment, I still blog. I'm still going to churn out words, twice a week, because it's writing. For years I've had jobs, but never a career. When I began writing I discovered that all the weird and varied jobs I'd had were my preparation for a career as a writer. I mean, come on, working as a mare handler at a stud farm, and being the personal assistant to the director on a movie? Not to mention the year I was a lunch lady at a high school. My resume bounces from one obscure job category to another, like a pinball. But that's okay— it's all been fodder for the word mill. It's all been experience.

Which bring me to this:

The eBook I contributed a chapter to is now available for your purchasing pleasure. It's geared towards those of you who are dissatisfied with the current status of your employment or life and want to move forward into a position that you might actually enjoy. It's chocked full of stories and anecdotes about how successful people took a look at their lives and decided that a change was in order.

Inside the virtual pages you will find inspiration from such notable individuals as cookie giant Wally "Famous" Amos , marketing strategist Michelle Kabele , motivational speaker Dave "The Shef" Sheffield along with career coach and networking goddess April Williams . I highly recommend it for those of you who seek a change and don't know where to begin.

Here's the secret; it begins with you.




And, I can get you a discount. Because we know I'm all about not paying retail.

Go to

Cyberlifetutors.com.IgniteYourPassion

Use coupon code Le5Ord3r04 for a 5% discount

My name is *Lisa Williams, and I am a published writer.


*Truth in advertising; I am not the Lisa Williams who speaks to dead people. At least, none that I know of.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

(Please note: Because we live in a litigious society, names have been changed so I don't get sued.)

As the saying goes, "The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world"; meaning, the person raising a child has the most influence on them. It works like that with carriage drivers, sort of. Of course, not with children; in our case it has to do with Restaurants.

When I work downtown, I come into contact with literally hundreds of people per shift. Some ask directions, some ask about horses, or events/tourist attractions in the Salt Lake Valley, and a large number ask for a recommendation for a restaurant downtown. The same goes for Ro, who answers the phones for the carriage company and makes ride reservations. She, like us, will be asked by a customer where they should go and eat before a ride.

And here is the thing about the employees at Carriage For Hire: we love food. This is obvious just by looking at us. From the time we hit South Gate to the time we un-tack the horses for the evening, we talk about food, reminisce about particular favorites, and in fact discuss recipes and entire meals we've had. Being that we work in a service based industry, we pay particular attention not only to the price point and quality of the food we order, but the level and speed of service we receive at the various places we frequent. And just ask Jenn from Dee's, we tip extraordinarily well.

So, when a new restaurant opens, we look forward to trying it out, hoping that we've found a new favorite. Not only for our own personal use, but for another place to recommend to folks looking for a decent meal. When I worked in the executive dining room for a local oil company, the Executive Chef confided to me that if he ever opened a restaurant downtown, he would "take care of" the carriage drivers. Being from Chicago, I assumed at first he meant we would all be sleeping with the fishes, but he explained that since he is aware we send business to restaurants he'd make sure we were either fed for free or tipped out accordingly. That eased my mind a bit…

For example, I will not send people to any of the following places:

Bxxxxxxxa (dry, overcooked food tepanyaki style with a listless staff who are more concerned with turning over the tables than they are about you having a pleasant and enjoyable dining experience.)

The Downtown Oxxxe Gxxxxn (just the opposite; a lackadaisical staff and management who are more concerned with entertaining out of town conventioneers than locals. And don't ever go in there if you have to be someplace, like say, The Capitol Theater to see "Spamalot", and only have an hour and a halfbetween the time you sit down and order and curtain time, You. Won't. Make. It.)

Having worked in the food service industry myself, I will never again set foot in Sxxxxn, because if the front of the house is filthy, what does the kitchen look like?
I pass this info along to the people I work with; we have about 25 driver on staff. And in turn they tell me about their culinary nightmares; Bxxxxxa ruined a filet mignon; Gxxxxx's lunch was nasty but it could be a fun place to go for cocktails; and Txe Rxxf is overpriced for unimaginative fare, and the cheesecake was clearly on its last day, dry with a yucky film between the layers. And as Ro said, it's hard to ruin Cheesecake; you order it in from your supplier, and store it in your fridge. At $35.00 a person for their buffet, one expects a certain level of quality, which lately we have found not to be there.

So, food. ~A~, Ro and I had lunch at a new place that just opened on Main street. We've been looking forward to it with great anticipation because on the weekend they are scheduled to be open 24 hours. In downtown SLC the only place open 24 hours is Denny's. Sad and pathetic, I know.

We went to Txe Bxy Lxxf and ordered three menu items, all different, and planned on eating family style. We ask for extra plates, and scoop portions so everyone gets a chance to try each item. The best thing ordered was the lemonade ~A~ had. The meatloaf was crusty, the fried chicken was moist but bland, and the Bulgogi (yeah, I know, their menu is eclectic, but we like eclectic, when it's done right, which The Tin Angel is a prime example of) was dry, and charred, thus ruining the sweet Korean marinade I normally associate with it. And the ear of roasted corn? In the Slave Driver household, if I had shucked the puny, mealy ear that was served, it would have gone straight into the trash, and our family motto is "Nothing but the most mediocre for us." So, yeah.

All in all it was an "Eww" meal. And too bad, because we send people to places we like all the time. J. Wongs Biestro, (they have a fabulous desert made of deep friend cream cheese wrapped in wonton skins. It sounds weird but it's really freakin' good) Lambs Café, Tuchana in The Gateway Mall, and The Red Iguana are all restaurants we recommend. (The Red Iguana, on North Temple, not The Bxxe Ixxxxa, next to Bxxxxxxxa) And for a small example of the culinary power we wield, here is a little story about a place we found in the 'burbs:

I met Ro at a mall last week frequented by crack heads and gang bangers. I refused to eat in the food court, and as we left for another venue on our Sunday shopping extravaganza, we stopped at Smash Burger. We loved it. It is now our newest favorite place (while we anxiously await the opening of the "In-and-Out Burger" they're building by my house). Ro told her man, and I told mine. The next day Mr. Slave Driver dragged his fellow workers there, and they too enjoyed it. And these guys not only go out to eat every day, but often take clients to lunch. (Mr. Slave Driver works in the construction trade, so informal dining is just fine with them.) Ro's significant other ate there, too, and while he did not like it as much as we did, he said it was good. Then, Ro told MBA of our newfound love, and she said her son told her he'd tried it and found it to be kind of bleh. But because Ro and I liked it, and knowing 1) how much Ro and I like food, and 2) how incredibly picky we are, she's going to give it a try based on our review..

How's that for influence?

So, if you're ever in Salt Lake, looking for a good place to eat, ask your local carriage driver. Because when it comes to food, clearly, we know what we're talking about. After all, we don't look the way we look because we eat sensibly. Or, you know, a lot of salads.

Excerpt, Chapter 9, Page 90

I'm still deep in revision over here, and haven't worked at the barn in over a month. Ro tells me there's been some physical changes; the window in the drivers room, broken two years ago when one of the drafts roaming the property wedged himself between one of the stock trailers and the window, found out that glass doesn't bend very well, has finally been replaced. The fluorescent lighting in the small barn has been improved. (Fluorescents take a while to achieve full brightness during cold weather. There were times I thought I was going blind…) and the gas heater in the drivers room is finally being fixed, which is great, because that's also where the bathroom is and it gets freakin' cold in there, if you know what I mean.

Add into the mix the two new horses purchased at the auction in Denver last month, and you can see that there is a lot of stuff I've missed. So clearly I need to take a ride downtown. I also have to switch my summer stuff to my winter stuff and do my semi-annual locker cleaning to get it all to fit. But not today. Today I'm still editing. So, since I really have nothing to moan, mock, discuss, or bitch about, I'm posting an excerpt from the novel I'm doing the slash and burn on.

This is one of my favorite scenes. Here is the set-up: the main characters, Bill Fantazma and Carlin "Carlos" Farley operate, you guessed it, a carriage business. Her nickname for him is "Baby Huey." Currently their relationship is platonic, but they do have a romantic history. Carlos has recovered from an accident that killed her husband and young son, amputated her left foot, and gave her brain damage, along with mild aphasia and significant memory loss. One of the side effects of the brain damage is occasional seizures. In this scene Carlos had a seizure the night before, and while she usually sleeps in an RV located on the property, in this case Bill put her in his bed to keep an eye on her.

***

Bill awakened suddenly, something cold touching the bottom of his foot. He lay on his side, his legs drawn up close to his body, and glanced at glowing red numbers on the clock; 3:10. He stretched out and rolled to his left. The soft blue moonlight streaming through the French doors revealed the lump in the bed next to him. Carlin he thought and smiled as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior of his bedroom. She faced away from him, and he realized that it had been her foot touching his. Cautiously extending his leg, Bill connected with her foot again, and tentatively rubbed it with his toes.

It’s like ice. He rolled over, propped himself up on one elbow, and watched her sleep. She lay under the covers, the sheet pulled up around her waist, the blankets bunched up at the end of the bed. He reached out and put his hand on her bare back, feeling the chill of her skin through his fingertips. She responded to his touch, arching against the warmth of his hand. He felt her roll and drew back his arm.

She turned towards him, pillowing her hands under her cheek, her dark brown eyes gazed at him from under her lashes. His heart lurched. She slept shirtless, and in the moonlight he had a very nice view of her breasts. He couldn't stop himself from watching them shift around when she rolled over. He felt his pulse quicken as he looked at her. He licked his lips and swallowed hard, barely noticing the scarcity of saliva and the thick woolen feel of his tongue.

“Bill, I’m cold,” she whispered, her sleepy voice holding a hint of a whine.

“Okay darlin’, hang on one second,” Bill’s reply husky as he dragged his eyes away from her. With great regret he sat up, reached down to the end of the bed and pulled the blankets up over her, tucking her in as she burrowed deep into them looking for warmth. Her hair unbound, he reached out and moved a strand of it out of her face with his fingers, lightly stroking her cheek. She sighed.

“Thanks Baby Hu…” her soft voice drifted away.

Bill watched her for a moment longer before he rolled away, positioning his body as close to the edge as possible. He knew her proximity and her nakedness would make returning to sleep very difficult. He took a deep breath, drawing in her scent, almond cookies with a hint of horse, knowing even while he did it that it was a mistake.

I should never have put her under the covers, he reminded himself. She gets too warm and then we have this…this…situation.

He thought about her breasts again, watching an instant replay in his head, over and over. He punched his pillow and muttered, “Have some mercy, woman.” Closing his eyes he breathed deeply through his mouth, tried to ignore the alluring smell of almonds, attempted to stop his pulse from pounding in his chest, and crunched numbers in his brain to cool his ardor.

***

Bill’s alarm screeched at seven am. He reached a long arm out and slapped it off. “Oh, shut up!” he grumbled, never opening his eyes.

“Bill,” Carlin’s tone was sharp.

Bill opened his eyes and stared at the wall.

“Bill,” she repeated, insistent.

“What?” He was grumpy. He was tired. Going back to sleep was very tempting.

“Why am I in your bed?” she demanded.

Bill rolled his eyes and said nothing. Great, it’s going to be like that, is it?

“Did I have a see-saw?” she asked.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Yes, you had a seizure,” he replied.

She was quiet for a moment. “Was what’s-his-name there?”

Bill sighed. “Richard. Yes.”

He felt her rustling next to him. “What did we do last night?”

“We ate pizza and watched your favorite movie. Then you fell asleep.”

“We watched ‘The Godfather’? I don’t remember that.”

Bill swiveled his head towards her. “No, we watched ‘The Princess Bride.’”

Carlos looked into his eyes, “That’s your favorite movie, Bill.”

Bill grinned at her, eyeing her tousled bed-head, the way she cocooned herself into the covers, so close he could smell her lotion. This morning she smelled like warm cookies. Adorable warm cookies.

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Why am I naked?” she asked with a fair amount of suspicion in her voice.

Bill raised his eyebrows, all innocent, “You’re not naked. You still have your underpants on, don't you?”

She pulled the covers away and took a quick look, giving him another flash of her breasts. “Did we do sex last night?” she asked accusingly, pulling the covers snug around her again.

Bill closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Maybe she wasn't so adorable this morning after all. “No. We did not have sex last night.”

“Because I don’t like being taken advantage of, Bill.”

“I know you don’t. I would never do that to you.” He tried to keep his voice even, but he was too tired for this. He rolled back onto his side, away from her, praying for patience.

“Then why am I naked?” The accusatory tone was still in her voice. “Give me your shirt,” she demanded, clutching the covers closer to her.

Bill gritted his teeth and slapped the mattress between them with his palm, making her jump. “You took your tank and your bra and your jeans off because you were too hot. In the middle of the night you woke me up because you were too cold and I covered you with the blanket. Now you're suddenly shy, and you want my clothes? I kept my clothes on all night, missy!”

“Well, you should have stopped me,” she said, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

"Like I could ever stop you," Bill muttered.

“And how do I know that you didn’t take my clothes off after the see-saw when you know I can’t remember stuff like that!” she harrumphed. “And then I wake up naked,” she added, jerking away from him onto her side.

Bill mentally counted to ten, then rolled back towards her, inching over until he was pressed up against her back. He put his free arm around her and jerked her up against the length of his long, hard body. He heard her breath escape in an “Oof!” as he placed his lips next to her ear.

“If I had stripped off your clothes and made love to you last night, Carlin, I guarantee you would remember it this morning,” he hissed.

Pushing himself away from her, he flung off the covers and rolled out of bed, ripping his t-shirt off over his head with both hands as he walked across the room. From the doorway he turned, wadded it into a ball and threw it at her.

“Now what did I do?” she asked, flinching as it hit her.

“Nothing!” Bill growled, and he went downstairs to find refuge in lifting weights.

No Nano 4 Me-O

November, for those of you who don't swim in the literary pool, is National Novel Writing Month The idea is you can turn off your internal editor, sit in front of your keyboard, and pound out a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. And yes, I do know people who have accomplished this, but I am not now nor will I ever be one of them.


No NaNo Candy in this house

Why? You ask.

One reason is, I'm not much of a "joiner." The few organizations I belong to require me to do the least amount of participation possible, with the exception of the RWA chapter I'm a member of and they just elected me treasurer, silly fools.

For example, I am a member of the DAR; Daughters of the American Revolution, and only because my mother did all the genealogy work, and, as a member, (and in return for my $51.00 a year membership fee,) my daughter is eligible for scholarships. Otherwise every email I get, which tend to be nothing more than prayer requests for members living in Arizona (I'm a member of my mother's chapter. Don't ask, it's a long story…) go directly into the recycle bin unread. Because I. Don't. Give. A. Crap.

I'm also a member of the League of Utah Writers. It was the first writing group I joined and the two best things I got out of it were my friend Doree, and the critique group I belong to. Otherwise, I don't attend any of the meetings anymore because, well, it's a long story. Again. Mostly it has to do with good stuff on television on Thursday nights and a lack of learning anything new. Plus they don't have a bar, even a cash one. And when I did attend there was a lot of eye rolling involved on my part, and I didn't want to pull an eyes muscle. So I still pay my dues, but mostly to pad my writing resume with the "Member of The League of Utah Writers" credential.

Impressive. Yeah, I know.

I'm also not much of a people person. Well, "normal" people, anyway. People who have feelings. If you're snarky, crude, have a warped sense of humor, and write "Mock People" at the top of your daily "To Do" List, we'd get along just fine. Otherwise, if you're looking for a BFF who helps boost your moral and self esteem, will hold your hand while you cry about your last poorly ended relationship, and wants to spend hours chatting about your hopes and dreams…not so much. I'm more of a "kick you in the ass to motivate you" kinda gal. Always have been. That makes me rather unpopular in certain circles, which is why I avoid joining circles whenever possible. I also, by the way, detest baby showers.

November will never be a good month for me to do anything as long as I'm still working for the Carriage barn. December, either. I go from being a slug, working maybe three days a week tops, (and only when I feel like it,) to being a full time employee. (shudder)

I know, I can hear all of you people out there who actually have real, full time jobs wringing your hands and crying for me.

Wait, no I can't, because you're not. You're mocking me in a funny sarcastic voice, "Oh, poor baby, has to work full time for six weeks, let's throw her a pity party…" Which is fine, I can take your ridicule, because trust me, I know how stupid it sounds. And I ridicule myself, often, because I deserve it.

But to get back to my Nano thing, November is a busy month for me so adding writing a novel into the mix is just never going to happen, because it would start out all funny, energetic and sweet and end up all bitter, foul and nasty. Sort of like how I start out November. Without the sweet part, of course. Plus you do it as a group, reporting your daily word count and touting your accomplishments, and I as said in the beginning, I'm not much of a group person. I'm more of a hunched over, admiring my precious, leave me the f*ck alone person.

So, in the interest of public safety, world peace and not contributing to the local homicide statistics, I'll stay out of NaNoWriMo, again, and stick to carriage driving.

You can thank me later.

Octobers End

Tonight is our last night at Gardner. Will I miss it? Meh~ it’s a nice change, being able to get to work in 10 minutes as opposed to 30. And lets not forget the pre-work preparations, because there is a huge difference:

Tractor

Gas up
Put blankets on straw bales
Start

Horse

Pull out of paddock
Give treats
Pick hooves
Groom
Give treats
Braid tail
Give kisses
Tack up
Give treats
Give treats
Hook to carriage

So it’s been alright, but driving a tractor for three hours straight in a large circle is somewhat boring. Of course, standing at South Gate in the rain trying to sell rides on a night when Salt Lake looks like a ghost town is boring too. Plus, while I have a great time working with Ro, I miss the rest of my carriage tribe. But soon the Christmas season will start, and we’ll have so much “together” time, I’ll be sick of them quick enough.

So I guess it all evens out in the end.

Except the tractor isn't any fun to kiss.

Work It Like A Rock Star

Here are a few final notes on Gardner Village, driving a tractor, a photo-tour of the ride, and the carriage trade in general:



Pumpkins do not make good step stools. Wet pumpkins especially, and it you've ever seen a little boy, climbing on a wet pumpkin slip down and catch the stem in the 'nads, you'd understand.

On a hay ride, you get on the wagon and sit your ass down. You do not get back up after you're seated and wander around. It's a hay ride not a frickin dance floor. And you never allow you kids to jump off and run behind the ride, and then talk about the kid that was killed on a hay ride two months ago. Unless, of course, you're stupid.

I had my share of pictures taken the first weekend when I was dressed like a witch. It comes with the territory. I was also frequently asked for an autograph. The Gardner Witches hand out a glossy 8x10 photo of the coven. Neither Ro nor I are included, since we work for the Carriage Company and not Gardner, which is fine with me. So, when asked, I would sign my name in the corner. I know that unlike an autographed photo of, say, Johnny Depp, that puppy will last about two days then go straight to the recycle bin.

This weekend I had my first request to have my photo taken with a rider as the tractor driver. Upon reflection I think he really wanted a picture of him & the tractor alone, but I wouldn't get down for it. Someone has to keep their foot on the brake so we don't roll down the hill.

Request for autographs as a carriage driver are few and far between, however I'm in family vacation photo albums from Saskatchewan to Singapore, just like carriage drivers from all over the world. And the way a tourist approaches you for a photo can be varied. Some will ask, others offer to pay, many just snap away and some try to be sneaky. And I don't mean to profile, but in my experience Asian tourists are fascinated with the poop bag (or "Diaper" as some call it) and take close-up photos of it. And that leads me to wonder if 1) Asiatic horses don't poop, or 2) they are allowed to poop willy-nilly and Asia is covered in random piles of horse crap. So is the fascination with the poop or the bag? Inquiring minds want to know.

By the way, random people need to quit trying to tell us our jobs. We put about 20 bodies on the wagon, because that's about the Max Occupancy for the witch's house. Yesterday a lady informed me that we could get at least four more on the back of the flatbed. I said, "That's great, but we can't cram any more into the train car." It's called "Ride to a Witch", not "The Sardine Can Experience."

Here is a text between Ro & I from Friday when the passengers waiting for the ride were lines up 6 deep and 30 long:

Ro: A taco stand right here would make a killing

Me: Hahaha (I know, I'm full of sparking witt and clever riposte, but mind you I'm texting while driving a tractor hauling a flatbed wagon filled with people.)

Ro: Hell, I would buy 10

Me: Me 2

Me: Like either of us needs 10 tacos. Or 1 even.

Ro: Lol!

Once when I was stopped to load I got down and asked Ro to tell all the children not to talk to the tractor driver unless their hair was on fire. Two children had been calling out to me the entire ride back and not only is it distracting but if they keep screaming at me I can't tell if there is something really wrong or they just want me to wave "Hi" to them. And, of course, all y'all know I'm all about interacting with children. (Ach-tooey!)

Another time when I was stopped and got down (understand that I'm driving a tractor, not a Caddy, and the machine tends to be very rough and loud plus there is no power steering and the front end shakes with every rock I hit. And I drive on a road covered in gravel. So, I get down a LOT ) an older man who had been conversing with Ro followed me to ask what gear I was driving in.

"I have the same tractor," he said, "I just wondered how you were driving her."

So I advised him that I started "Her" in second and remained in it, topping "her" out at ¾ throttle. He seemed satisfied with my answer, so I guess I pass the "What the hell is a woman doin' drivin' a tractor?" test.

Ro says I need to tell you that I sent her the following text, which she found immensely amusing:

Me: Ok, U got any more tractor groupies that wanna hang with me?

A group getting on at the Witch's house handed me a purse that was left on the wagon. So I drove a full rotation with a purse on my shoulder, which not only shows that women can drive a tractor, but we can do it fashionably and with panache. Although I am the first to point out that the green paisley bag did not match my grey Coleman work boots.

I drive a 1999 Jeep Wrangler, not the smoothest or most luxurious vehicle known to man. In fact it's a lot like driving a brick with the suspension of a go-cart. But recently, after piloting the tractor for three hours straight, when I get in the Jeep to drive home, it feels unusually smooth and responsive…

Ro hands out the cockroach "tickets" at one end of the gravel drive and tells the passengers to give them to the witch. Then the passengers walk to the other end of the gravel drive and get on the flatbed. Last week a boy tried to hand me a cockroach. I said, "Sorry, kid, I'm not a witch. I'm just a tractor driver with a bad attitude."


One week before the last day of the ride, which began the first weekend in October, we finally get a sign people can see




This is my favorite corner




Fiona's Frogs




Sheep Camp




Almost there




The witchs are home




And this is where they live




Back to base





And finally, for you skiers, if you've ever read about the meteorological "magic" of Little Cottonwood Canyon, home to both Alta and Snowbird, here is what they're talking about:

That flurry of white stuff is rain, confined to the Canyon. Higher up, it's snow.

Rules? Nobody Told Me About Any Stinking RULES!

New rules for bloggers: If you review or endorse something, you must disclose if you received any compensation for doing so.

Okay, that's fair. But here's the deal…I had no idea that there were any rules to begin with. Now, I'm familiar with the term libel, and rarely go far enough in my rants to open myself to a lawsuit. I'm also smart enough to follow the old adage, "You never shit in your own backyard." But that's more of a guideline than a law, anyway. So hearing that they were rules regarding bloggers which fall under advertising…

News to me.

So, in the interest of full disclosure, I want to advise all of you about the following items which I use and endorse and if someone wants to PAY me to endorse them, well, bring it on…

Cash: I use cash. I like it a lot. Cash is my favorite kind of currency. If you currently manufacture cash and are looking for an enthusiastic cash endorser, I'm your girl. I'll even be happy to do an info-mercial and demonstrate how cash is used and the way it works. By the way, any samples of cash you give me for demonstration purposes, I get to keep.

My tag line: Cash, it's what the world wants.

Food: I like food, and am willing to endorse food. Except for tofu, you can keep that shit all to yourself. I'm talking real food, the kind of food that things must die in order for you to get it. Beef, popcorn, cheap wine and chocolate top my personal food pyramid, so if you have any of those things and want me to endorse them, bring it, I'm game.

My tag line: Food, it's what's for eatin'.

Sleep: I love sleep and get as much sleep as I possibly can, although there are times when it seems that sleep is in very short supply around here. So, if you want to pay me to sleep for you? I can do that. I'll even give you a "sleep endorsement" discount.

My tag line: Sleep, so easy you can do it in your sleep.

(It should be clear to you now why I never dabbled in advertising)

I also endorse such random things as personal hygiene, television and movies, music, and clothing. Especially clothing, except anything made from Lycra. There are very few people in the world who can pull off Lycra. I know I can't, and my eyeballs are tired of being traumatized by those who think they can, but can't. Seriously. Which is why I also endorse mirrors, and I mean real mirrors, not the fun house kind that make short fat people look all tall and thin. And if you are not sure if your mirror is operating properly, you might need to have it calibrated. To do this you weigh yourself (top number), and measure for height (bottom number). If the top number greatly exceeds the bottom, you cannot wear Lycra, which your mirror should plainly prove. For example, my numbers are 154/65. That translates to "No Lycra for me."

My tag line: Mirrors, they should not be ignored.

I also endorse books, and to demonstrate my endorsement, I'm going to end this and get back to editing mine.

Paid endorsement proposals can be directed to:

SLCSlaveDriver@gmail.com

Thank you for your support.

Cockroach Accounting. Not Available From Peachtree Software Any Time Soon…

As you may or may not know, depending on if you read this blog with any amount of regularity, I have been working off site during October. And when I say "Off Site" what I really mean is Gardner Village. Plus I did some other stuff, (ski fans, Warren Miller's "Dynasty" is still good old fashioned ski-porn, but it won't get you nearly as stoked for the season to begin as, say "Children of Winter Never Grow Old," and it won't induce a skigasm. In other words, on a scale from "Someone please kill me I can't stand anymore" to "Awesomesauce!" it's a "Meh~" which is somewhere in the middle, before "Yay!" but after "Bleh." Plus some sick bastard kept coughing in our direction while we were taking the Trax to Abravanel Hall and now I have a cold. Just. What. I . Needed.)

Anyway, back to Gardner Village, which is what I think today's blog was supposed to be about. I'm a little fuzzy right now.

The parameters of Gardner changed this year. Instead of us using their property and taking care of all the Witch expenses, and keeping 100% of the proceeds, they wanted a cut, so they raised the price, spent a ton of money improving the back acreage we drive the tractor in, and changed the ride so instead of driving around with a witch on the hay trailer we drive the people out to the witch's house and then go back and pick them up. In other words, we are a weird rural Taxi service. But we still have to collect the cash from the people, and account for it. So, instead of selling "tickets," at first we just had them pay for the ride, then go through a gate and get on the hay wagon. Simplicity at its finest.

But, apparently the bean counters at Gardner were unhappy with this provincial method, so they came up with the idea of giving out rubber cockroaches as "tickets". The stager hands, preferably an adult in the group, the correct number of cockroaches matching the number of paying riders in each family, and then that person, upon arrival at the Witch's house, gives the cockroach "tickets" to the witch and the roaches are counted up at the end of the night.

Except it has yet to work out that way. Because sometimes the witches don't take the roaches, and people return with them, handing the yucky thing back to the stager saying, "She never asked for this so you can have it back." And frequently the passengers will lose their roach within seconds of it being handed to them and told, "Keep this and give it to the witch it's your ticket don't lose it," which means we have an unauthorized rubber roach hiding in the gravel. So, as a form of accounting, I do not recommend rubber cockroaches.

Being that one of us is on the tractor and the other of us is staging, we communicate via text messaging, which is often how Ro and I communicate daily anyway. So, here for your enjoyment are some of the messages we have sent in reference to Gardner:

Ro: You want to stage or drive tomorrow? I am good with either one I just want to know witch attire or farmer attire.

Ro: I am good either way.

Me: I drive U stage.

Ro: I think I was dumb and gave a roach to a babies Mom when the baby did not pay. (children 12 months and under ride for free)

Ro: Someone lost a roach, imagine that. I told them I could not replace it. So now what?

Me: It makes up for the roach you gave the baby. Roach accounting. It all evens out in the wash.

Me: (yesterday) Did U bring the gas can back with U Sat nite or do U want me to stop and fill mine on the way?

Me: I'm at grocery store you want anything 4 tonight?

Ro: No on gas. Yes for tonight, snacks and a water please.

(Later on)

Ro: I counted $*50 in 20's

Me: Really? $*50 in 20's? U R so special.

Me: U might wanna recount. F*KIN RAIN (with an hour to go until we finished, it started to rain )

Ro: Why?

Me: $*50 is not divisible by 20

Ro: Ya true ok I got 1 $50 bill but I meant big bills. Not counting change I have used.

Me: Ah ha.

Me: Y is it again = U take $ & I drive? Oh yeah, children (shudder)

Me: (watching Ro huddle under the canopy and snuggle up by the propane heated provided for the customers) Put on my cape if ur cold.

Ro: I'm not bad thanks we just got a few more minutes (in actuality we had 40 more minutes)

Ro: The skyline looks like snow!

Me: Snow! Bleh!

And of course, I dead-headed out to the house twice retrieving passengers, just before 8 pm which is when we quit for the evening, and upon my return there was a family who could not make up their *%^$&# minds if they wanted a ride or not and by then the rain was steady and cold. Finally, they decided to go, so by the time I was done dragging their asses out and back I was drenched even though I had earlier put on my Carhartt bibs and Sherpa windbreaker.

And no one even counted the cockroaches.

And now I'm going back to bed. After I run to Wal-Mart and buy "Transformers," I have a crush on Bumble Bee.

Why You Never Play Strip Poker With A Carriage Driver In Winter~

Editors Note: (That, BTW, would be ME. I'm the editor.) And speaking of editing, I'm deep in editing doo-doo right now so I've dragged up this blog that I wrote way back in December of 2007 before I ever got onto blogger so the only people who might have read it did so on my "MySpace" blog. And they were probably drunk at the time and don't remember it anyway. So, see, it's new for everyone then. Yeah...that's it...

The most asked question we get at South Gate is "How much is a ride?" Okay, that's a valid one, people want to know the cost before they get on the carriage.

The next most frequently asked question is this; "Is that a real horse?" for which we have a number of replies, mostly conceived out of boredom, but the amusing part is that adults ask that question as often as children. And no, I am not kidding you.

In winter the third most frequently asked question is; "How do you stay warm?"

Well, let me tell you. First of all, I am from the Midwest, which makes me corn fed, so I have a nice subcutaneous layer of fat to help with the insulation. So as far as I'm concerned a "cold" day in Utah is barbeque weather. But here is what we wear, and why you should never play strip poker with a carriage driver in winter, because even if you win, believe me you are gonna lose in the long run.

Underwear- you know the regular stuff. I don't go commando.

First base layer- mine is a very thin and light layer called "Cool Duds" made of Polyester and Spandex that wicks away moisture. It's also very soft and comfy, but it fits like a cat suit and of course the spandex shows all the cellulite and extraneous rolls of relaxed muscle. Not very flattering but effective. I put a pair of wool socks on over the first base layer so the wool doesn't itch.

Second base layer: Remington polyester long johns also black and thin. These are silky and thicker then the first base layer, but they are Men's, because no one in the marketing department of Remington thinks 1) Women get cold 2) Women go outside in the winter 3) Women hunt. Apparently they have never lived in Missouri. Anyway, those go on and then I put a fluffy pair of cotton socks on over that because my boots are too big.

Third base layer; "Outlast" Polyester and acrylic long johns on the bottom and thicker yet then the first two. A regular Polypropylene shirt on the top, which is thinner then a regular long john type shirt or a Polypropylene/polyester/wool shirt, depending on the weather.

I top all of that off with Jeans and a fleece jacket: This is the stuff I put on at home so I can get in my car and drive to work. If I put the rest of my gear on at home I would be unable to bend enough to actually get in my Jeep.

When I get to the barn I pull my carriage and load it, pull my horse and get him ready, then I finish getting dressed.

Off come the Jeans and the fleece jacket.

Fourth Layer: jogging pants with a flannel lining and a nylon exterior. This cuts the wind & the flannel is warmer then the jeans. Jeans are not very warm. On the top I don a cotton turtleneck sweater. Add one pair of Sorrel boots good to –20 degrees, although that's only if you are moving. By the time I have finished I cannot really "move", if fact it's all I can do to get on and off the carriage. Walking has become more like a shuffle. Forget falling down, I'd never be able to get back up again. I know how Ralphie's brother Randy feels in "A Christmas Story". I too am ready for deep sea diving.

Fifth layer; on the top I add a fleece pullover, which keeps all the warm stuff in. On the bottom I add my insulated Carhartt bib overalls.

Sixth layer; on top we add a Jerzees zip hoodie, on the bottom we add coated nylon rain pants if it is going to rain or snow or if it is windy. The rain gear keeps me dry, for the most part. It also cuts the wind and keeps all the yummy warmth inside.

Seventh layer; the rest of the stuff goes on the top only, although I can always add a blanket on my legs, I have 2 to choose from; a regular fleece blanket and a fleece blanket that I sewed a piece of thin vinyl over the top of to keep me dry if it rains or snows. On top I add a fleece zip vest, this has zip pockets and is where I keep my wallet and my cel phone, safely ensconced in the pockets. Top this ensemble off with a neck gaiter & fleece ear band and I'm ready for the catwalk in Milan!

Eight layer; I have several choices here, depending on the weather. I have a coat that can go over the jacket (when you volunteer for Sundance Film Festival and are a full time worker you get a new coat/vest every year. So I have "disposable" coats. Perfect for Carriage driving) or I can put on yet ANOTHER fleece jacket. Then we add glove liners, Obermeyer gloves (my favorite ski gloves) and chemical hand warmers inside.

Ninth layer; if we get the aforementioned rain or snow I add a raincoat with a hood that then goes over the whole thing to keep me snuggle warm. Sometimes I feel like a Thanksgiving Turkey cooking in one of those bags, and patiently wait for my bellybutton to pop like a plastic timer.

So, to reiterate: 4 socks, 5 pants, 1 pair bibs, 9 tops, 1 ear band, 1 wubbie (neck gaiter) 2 boots. 4 gloves. I don't count the hand warmer, it's wouldn't be fair because they are not technically clothing. All the stuff starts out as mediums and graduates up as XXL as you hit the final phase.

29 things I can take off and throw into the pile before I'm down to my underwear. Even if I sucked at Poker, which I do, statistically I will win one or two hands and not lose one or two hands depending on the number of players in the game.

And even if I do manage to lose every hand, 29 hands later I will be too drunk to care (You cannot play Strip Poker without involving alcohol) and you have to look at my well-padded, saggy cellulite riddled fugly middle-aged body naked.

Any way you look at it, you still lose.

It's A Wrap…

The Heart of the West chapter of the Romance Writers of America conference in Park City, Utah is over. The weekend was exhausting, exciting, enlightening…it was a bunch of "e" words, okay? The food was even good, and those of you who actually "know" me are aware what kind of a food snob I can be especially when it comes to catered meals. So, everything was good with one exception:

When the heater in our room would kick on it sounded like a jet engine. This means you were able to sleep in 25 minute intervals. Not very conducive to a refreshing bout of slumber.

Oh well, shit happens.

Anyway, the conference was good. And not only did the literary agent I pitched to ask for a full (for those of you not in the know, that means she requested my entire manuscript) but she also asked for the synopsis to my third manuscript which is currently a virtual work in process.

So I guess I'd better go start writing…



"An editor, literary agent, and four writers walk into a bar..."

Just enough Time For A Quickie…

I'm in the thick of my RWA conference in beautiful (but pricy) Park City, Utah. My pitch appointment with an agent is tomorrow morning. As an added bonus, my friend and fellow writer, Doree, and I will be holding hostage transporting another unsuspecting victim a different agent to the airport and will be able to bombard her with our literary genius show her around Salt Lake on the way.





This is Victoria Dahl and I. She is a fabulous author of sizzling contemporary and historical romance. You. Must. Read. Her.

My Worst Nightmare, Three Days Of Witching, And Scoring A Bonus…

My little world for the next month





Imagine, if you will, my worst nightmare. Remember, now, we're talking me, not you. Zombies, snakes, ninjas, drunken horse whisperers, the IRS…not a problem. I usually have some type of weapon handy for any occasion, plus I think snakes are cool.
Loading the hay ride

My worst nightmare is to be surrounded by free-range children. "Free-Rangers", as those close to me know them as, roam around unfettered by the attention and direction of their parental units. You've seen these children; they are the ones climbing on the back of your restaurant booth and rubbing tartar sauce or ketchup in your hair when you've sat down for a quiet meal at the end of the day. They run, usually screaming AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS, through the airport/supermarket/doctors office while their tired and apathetic parent lollygags behind, hoping to distance themselves both literally and figuratively from the little urchins. They are the small and less than charming individuals that make me withdraw into my mind where I quietly watch the cartoons in my head so I do not react in a manner that will feature me on the evening news.

So, for the last three days I've been working as a witch (you may hold your comments. I am not oblivious to the allegory.) We're situated out in a field away from the center of the shopping area. This is good because, while the ride is geared towards children, I am not surrounded by them like a chunk of chicken in a pond of piranhas. They have to come all the way out to the back forty, accompanied by their parent/guardian, in order to ride out to the witch's house. Occasionally there is a short wait for the next tractor pulling the hay wagon, so they mill around, bored because their attention span is shortened due, I feel, to an MTV based society where everything happens fast.

Coco and Slave Driver during a break in the insanity


The milling around includes but is not limited to the following activities:

Jumping the ditch filled with water

Throwing gravel in the water

Throwing handful's of gravel in the air

Throwing gravel at me

Climbing the beautifully restored Gardner Village farm truck

Having their photo taken on the farm truck

Standing on pumpkins

Throwing pumpkins into the ditch.

When the last action occurred, and a young miscreant picked up a pumpkin to toss it into the ditch (which, by the way, is filled with fetid, scummy water that smells like ass) I took the opportunity to say, "No!" I was rewarded with a pouting glare from the child and a nasty look from the mother. I don't care, I have no intention of spending the rest of my afternoon wearing a costume that looks and smells like I store it, wadded in a ball, inside the chest cavity of a rotting Yak. So, while the parent was busy conversing with her friend, I was on child watch. Just so you know, I don't get paid extra for babysitting.

Hardrock driving the tractor

I do not drink and drive. Needless to say by the time I get home I am salivating for a big ass glass of wine to temper the urge to snarl and lash out at the next person I see. Just as I've trained my family to not speak to me in the morning until I have had at least one cup of coffee, silence reigns in Slave Driverland until I've enjoyed an adult beverage upon my return from Gardner. Then they may converse.

So I did three days in a row as a witch which lent me a new appreciation for Ro because it's usually her job. But I think I did okay, because I scored us a bonus. The people running the parking concession this weekend at Gardner are the same folks who also operate almost all of the pay-to-park lots downtown. The manager introduced himself to me, we chatted for a while and when he found out that not only am I a carriage driver but I also help manage The Rose Wagner theater during the Sundance Film Festival where I pay to park in one of their lots, he gave me some of his business cards. Normally the exchange of business cards is not unusual between entrepreneurs, and while the card I gave him will get him a 10% discount should he care to indulge his family in a carriage ride, the card he gave me, he explained, will allow me (and Ro, and the carriage barn owners, because he gave me a bunch of cards) to park in any of the lots operated by his company for free.

Score one for the win! Yay! Because if you've never seen Ro and I, out to lunch, circling the block like turkey vultures over a carcass looking for free parking, you have no idea what kind of a perk this is. It so makes up for the dead Yak smell.

Coco practicing his roping during a little down time




Curious about the names "Hardrock" and "Coco?" I grew up in the Midwest watching WGN television

Truth In Advertising

The legal requirements to be a carriage driver, in the state of Utah, are as follows:

You must be 21 years of age.

You must hold a valid Utah drivers license.

(If you find this lax, understand that years ago I worked at a Ben Franklin, which was a Five and Dime. They sold health and beauty aids, craft supplies, select grocery items, rented videos and games, and had a pharmacy. I was a pharmacy tech. At that time, in the state of Illinois, to be a pharmacy tech the only requirement was that you were a high school graduate. Scary.)

Unfortunately, nowhere does it say you must have at least two brain cells.

In Utah, carriage drivers are classified as Statutory Employees, which essentially means that we are independent contractors. In our particular case, we are hired as drivers and operate the equipment (horses and carriages) owned by the carriage barn owners. For that we are paid a commission for each ride we sell. We do not get an hourly wage, health benefits, vacation, sick days, or even a going away party.

(Sorry, I threw that in because I've been watching both season of "Dead Like Me" on Netflix. I'm entranced by the fabulous going away parties at the Happy Time Employment Agency. Sometimes, if it's a person we're particularly fond of, we'll go to a bar, but frequently you won't even know someone has left until it's done. Most of our drivers don't quit, they just fade away.)

The company I work for also has a little spot on the application asking if you have any weight lifting restrictions, up to 30 pounds. The equipment is heavy. Plus you control a 1800-2200 pound animal with your upper body. Wimpy people need not apply. Only a couple of our drivers could be classified as "thin" and I would bet the house on either of them in an arm wrestling contest.

Other than that, pretty much anything goes. I've run through trainees with horse experience, and without. I even had a guy who was afraid of horses, which my buddy Bill equated to hiring a non-swimmer as a lifeguard. A man in his 70's was training and by the time he called it quits, on his first night, around 9pm, he was lying down on the grass at South Gate because his back hurt. He had his wife come pick him up. We do a lot of standing around. So, you must be able to stand.

So here are a few of the New Rules we occasionally implement to qualify prospective employees as carriage driver material:

No more drivers named D**e. The last D**e had a nasty habit of sitting on the box and never getting down. This is not necessarily nasty in itself, however he also would pee his pants while on the box, which made for a gross experience for the next unfortunate driver to use that carriage. Plus he was an ass. So, no more guys named D**e.

No drivers that sing opera. We have enough of a Carnival worker image, and that shit is just weird.

When asked what your horse experience is, if by way of responding you indicate your clothing, which includes a shirt with a horsie on it, your fancy yet totally inappropriate/useless just-for-fashion cowboy boots, and your pants that looked like you stole them from the set of " The Electric Horseman," you fail. Also, riding a horse once 13 years ago is not "horse experience," it's "Vacation Experience." Go apply at Marriott. And just because you have some Native American in your blood does not necessarily impress us. Horses are not indigenous to the Americas. We would, however, be highly impressed if you were either Bedouin or Mongol. They've been at the whole living with horses stuff a lot longer.

If you show up wearing a cowboy hat and have a faded circle on the back pocket of your Wrangler jeans from a can of Skoal, we will probably write you off as a Rodeo wanna be. This is carriage driving, which is not the PRCA. Go ride bulls.

If on your first day you show fear when grooming the horse, you will wash out of the program. Is it because the horses can smell fear? I don't know about that, but the carriage drivers can, and they will eat you alive, just for shits and giggles.

The job is considered part time. This means you get to pick the days you want to work, not the hours. We're all on the street from 6-11, Monday through Thursday, and 6-12 on Friday and Saturday. If you are looking for 3-7, 5-8, or any other combination that is not 6 to 11/12, then may I suggest you get a job at a Snowy-Shak selling snow cones. And tell your spouse to quit freaking calling every ten minutes to 1)see how it's going 2)see how you like it 3)if you are working with a trainer whom your spouse is afraid you will have an affair with or 4) wants to know exactly what time you will be home. We employ grownups, hence the 21 years old requirement. That shit is so Junior High. A lot of our male drivers are here to make a little extra cash to support their families, and the women are just plain mean. We'd rather beat the crap out of you than date you any day.

If you cannot tolerate temperature extremes, go away. Until such a time as we colonize the moon with temperature controlled bio-bubbles, we will continue to work outside. There is no indoor professional carriage driving (as opposed to competitive carriage driving, which is a sport, often done in an arena). And if I have to listen to a newbie whine and cry about being cold/hot/hungry/parched or wet, I will personally walk over and jam your head in the poop bag. We're all out in the same weather that you are. Deal.With.It.

And if you start your first day of training by using baby talk to communicate with one of our horses, you might as well bag it. It just proves to us that the horse is smarter than you. We prefer it to be the other way around, although I've worked with drivers where the intelligence ratio is questionable.

The New Rules are subject to change without notice, depending on the situation. We had a "No more guys named 'Don' rule" because we had two Dons in a row that were annoying nutfucks. But then we got a non-annoying non-nutfuck Don, so we made an exception to the 'No Don' rule.

Until the next one. Then I guess it'll be on a case-by-case basis.

The D**e rule, however, still applies. So if your name is D**e and you want to be a carriage driver, practice asking, "Do you want fries with that?" Because, "Can I interest you in a carriage ride this evening?" will never pass your lips. At least not on my watch.

Too Much Stuff, Too Little Time

Once again it's been hectic over here at Casa Del Slave Driver. Fall brings an entirely new set of "shit that absolutely must get done" including draining the pool (the weekend before last) taking down the pool (this past Sunday) putting away the pool (still working on that) and swapping out the soft top for the hard one on my Jeep (not even close). All these things are on a timeline depending on the weather i.e. they must get done before it snows.

It's supposed to snow tomorrow. Welcome to "Rocky Mountain Living."

This week, probably today, I have to go to Gardner Village and do some reconnaissance. The gig has changed since last year. We no longer are doing "Ride With A Witch", we are doing "Ride To A Witch" which changes the parameters and I have to scope out the path they want us to use.

Why? You ask.

Because I hate surprises.

I also have a different role to play this weekend than usual. Historically, I'm the driver. This weekend I'll be the stager. Hardrock and Coco will be driving, so that puts the onus on me to make sure the operation runs like clockwork. Being the driver is easy, albeit boring. I firmly plant my ear buds, crank my iPod, and cover the entire mess with sound deadening hearing protectors. Insulated in my music filled world I simply drive in circles for eight hours, watch the cartoons in my head, and take visual cues from Ro when the flatbed is loaded and it's safe to drive off.
The music protects my sanity. I use the iPod to drown out not only the loud drone of the tractor engine, but also the uber-annoying sound of screaming children.

I can't use the iPod this weekend. Not only will I have to talk to people, but must be nice to them.

Slave Driver shudders

Added to the mix, I have to cobble together a witch-y costume to dress up in. Driving the tractor, I wear black jeans and a black turtleneck. Nothing spook-tacular (har-de har har) but as Ro found out last year when she stepped off of the tractor and did a face plant, nothing flowing that might get caught on the equipment, either.

Safety first. (That's my story. Sticking)

So don't look for a new blog until next Friday, barring any strange or unusual occurrences. Right now the only thing on the horizon besides Gardner is the publication of the non-fiction eBook I've contributed a chapter to.

And you will be hearing about that. Yes.You.Will.

Bringing Up Baby

I'm in the midst of revision over here. What that means to you non-writers is this: Imagine, if you will, that you've given birth to what you consider to be a beautiful baby. You've nurtured this baby for a long time: Your book baby's gestation has been close to two years from conception to birth.

No, wait, that's not right.

Okay, imagine that you're a type of marsupial. You give birth (your original idea) to a tiny caterpillar like thing which then climbs up your belly and plops into your pouch. There, nestled in the warm confines of your baby pocket, you nurture it, watch it grow and develop (the actual writing process). Finally, one glorious day, after much teeth gnashing and hand wringing, you go into labor and it pops out, fully formed, like Athena from Zeus's head. Or so you think.

Poof! You have finished your novel! YAY!

Oh, wait, no you haven't. First, you need to go in and clean your baby up, count it's fingers and toes, and of course push gently on the soft spot. Get rid of all the grammar, spelling, punctuation and formatting errors. Then, you give it to a friend or two (or six or seven, in my case) to read through and point out the errors you've missed. Why would you miss errors? The same reason that classical musicians are advised to never memorize a piece: While memorizing the music, you tend to also memorize your mistakes.

So, after your "Beta Readers" have done their job and pointed out all the things that, while obvious to them are not so obvious to you, you fix it. This can be compared to having an orthodontist put braces on your kid's teeth. The teeth are there, they're just crooked and a little fugly. It's not as painful as it looks because it's really a mechanical thing.

So you get the braces done (first revision), and sit back, admiring your beautiful child. But, not being sure if you’re kid is as beautiful as YOU think it is (because we all think our kid is beautiful) you go into round two, submitting your child to a beauty contest (critique).

During the critique process more technical errors are found, but not nearly as many, for which you are relieved, but now we're working on the esthetics. Your critique buddies, who are never as nice as your friends (which is a good thing because the worst feedback you can get on your writing is: "I just LOVED it!" because that is not helpful at all) ding you on point of view shifts, merit of dialogue to the story, pacing, character, and plot.

This is where the real work begins. This is where you go to your child and tear it apart, keeping it on life support while you make changes to its fundamental personality and body image. A little taller, a lot leaner, slightly more buff in the upper body; you sculpt your child into the epitome of a person, applying all the current societal rules for perfection while trying to maintain your child's unique individuality.

Which is all very difficult if you've 1) never written a book before and therefore have no idea what you're doing and 2) have never been one to play by the rules.

Now, forty-seven revisions later, you have achieved what you believe to be the ultimate child, and you have to sell it. And by sell it I mean defend it, justify its existence, and try to get someone (an agent or publisher) interested in buying your child so they can send your beautiful offspring out into the world for the rest of humanity to enjoy. You know, pimp out your kid.

That, dear Confessions of a Slave Driver blog readers, is where I'm at now. I have donned my purple feathered hat, slightly ratty fur coat, Italian loafers, and am standing on a street corner looking for Literary Johns to sell my baby to. Next month I will attend the Utah Romance Writers of America conference and "pitch" my novel to a stranger in an attempt to get an agent and conversely a publishing contract. Which brings us to The Pitch:

Carlin "Carlos" Farley's life is an open book. Unfortunately, she can't remember most of it. She's losing her barn manager, Bill, the guy who's been running her carriage business while she's been in extended care recovering from the accident that killed her husband and son. The same accident led to the loss of her left foot, along with a does of brain damage. Bill has always been there for her, in fact they've grown up together, but now he wants to pursue the career he put on hold and Carlin's resigned to the idea that he's leaving her.

Bill Fantazma is the kind of guy who always tries to do the right thing. But sometimes doing the right thing is not the right thing to do. He's been harboring a secret for a while now; he desperately wants to resume a romantic relationship with Carlin, one he instigated while she was still married to her philandering jerk of a husband. He's been in charge of her care and the business he helped acquire for her, and has accepted the accident and her subsequent brain damage as a chance for a "do-over", since his previous actions to attract her affection were less than honorable. It's a romance that Carlin can't remember, and Bill can never forget.

Richard Cooper appears the answer to their business problems. Knowledgeable about horses, willing to step in and take over the barn manager position, helpful and solicitous to Carlin, he's not put off by her sometimes bizarre and quirky behavior.
Behavior that often puts the image-obsessed Bill into a tailspin, between trying to take care of her, running the business and keeping her out of trouble, managing all aspects of her life for the last two years.

The situation of Carlin's brain damage, and her inability to remember the true nature of their relationship, which Bill once considered a blessing, had become an increasingly frustrating problem as her perceived attraction to the man he hires to replace him ramps up the intensity of his desires.

When Richard sees an opportunity to move in and draw Carlin's affection, Bill realizes just what she means to him and must make a decision; come clean about their past and risk her anger, or step away and allow Richard to have a romantic relationship with the woman Bill has loved all of his life.

With the help of their small tribe of friends and co-workers, Bill and Carlin are directed down the right path to secure a future for them both.

As you can see, it needs a lot of work. What do you think? And don't tell me you love it, because that shit is weak.

There Must Have Been Something In The Water

Bart, with girlish ribbons in his mane, which he was not happy about, but sometimes it comes with the job
(This pic's for you, BPA)

I worked Friday night. Nothing strange or unusual there— I work most Friday nights, unless 1) I have other plans 2) there are too many people already signed up and I know I won't make any money or 3) It's conference weekend, which only happens in the spring and fall or 4) I'm doing a specialty off site or 5) I've forgotten to sign up which is rare and even if I do Ro will call me up and write me into the schedule anyway. So, working a Friday is not a new or different experience.

Odd things happening during the course of an evening is not unusual either. We get visits from the Drunken Horse Whisperer, fistfights, and customers making strange requests. We handle all of these things on a regular basis because we have to. We work in an arena filled with the general public, in all weather and traffic conditions, because it's part of the job. There is no status quo for us. A driver must be able to think on their feet and often has to improvise. What is a strange and unusual occurrence is to get your monthly quota of weird shit all in the same night. That was this past Friday.

The evening started out normally; Kar had a trainee, several of us had appointments. We stood at South Gate killing time when from across the street at the construction site one of the workers, up in the air on a man-lift, had a melt down and started swearing at one of his co-workers. We listened while he screamed and yelled, dropping the "F" bomb numerous times, until the foreman came over and put him in a time out. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, because the Trax train, traffic, and noise coming from the construction site would mask the obscenities, but for some weird reason at that point in time our block was almost silent.

That little piece of street theater concluded, and then it was time for appointments. Mine was at 7:15, and I was to pick a family up in front of the Artspace condos on 200 South, drive them around for half an hour and drop them at Abravanelle Hall for the Cirque de Symphonie performance. All was well, and kind of slow, as I waited to leave from South Gates, when the wind picked up and a front came in. I was hoping that it would pass, but Kar gave me her trainee because I had my appointment and she was still standing at South Gate trying to sell a ride. As the trainee and I headed out for my appointment, which I left a little early for (because I'm anal retentive and hate to be late) the rain started so I pulled the carriage over on West Temple and we put the top up. When we arrived at the pickup point the family was waiting on the street so I flipped a u-turn and they got into the carriage. Going forward to the light, we were waiting for it to turn green when a gust of wind picked up a 3ft X 3ft wooden "Event Parking $3.00" sign and, with much noise and clattering, blew it from the north side of the street across all five lanes to the south side, behind my carriage, where it came to rest on the sidewalk.



Charlie Horse, during a lull in the insanity











Now, I'm going to discuss "having an out". When I drive either my car or my carriage I always try and have an "out". That is an escape plan. When I stop somewhere I always check my surroundings and see where I could go if I have to move out of the way in a hurry. I look for holes in traffic, open access to the sidewalk, curbs I could go over (you'd be surprised how well a carriage can handle a curb if you take it straight on) and I like to give myself a lot of room in my lane in case the horse I'm driving decides to have a fit about something. This is very rare, but as stated earlier, I'm anal retentive and I think about stuff like this so often that it's automatic.

I tell trainees all the time, to do this job you have to be a defensive driver, extremely vigilant, and constantly aware of your surroundings.

My "out" in this case was a right turn, which I did not have to use, although I was prepared to if necessary. So when the sign became a missile, rolling across the street, almost nailing a pedestrian on the sidewalk, making Charlie do a vigorous tap dance, I was prepared to make a right, but he calmed down and the situation was handled in a safe and secure manner.

I finished the ride and returned to South Gate. A little later I hooked a ride up to Memory Grove. It was a young couple, casually dressed, nothing different or unusual. On the way up Canyon Road, I passed Kar, and it appeared that she had long streamers, at least 30 feet, hanging off the back of her carriage. It was strange, but I figured she knew about it so I didn't say anything.

I went into the Grove and back down, and was almost to the gate when the young man in my carriage whispered in my ear, "Can you pull over for a minute?" I stopped Charlie, and the customer proceeded to get down on one knee and propose. This was only weird because it's typical to do "it" at the bridge, or in the park, not on the carriage almost out the gate.

Eh, what are you going to do? It's not like we have a sign in the carriage "To propose properly, ask the driver to stop at the bridge, get out and do it there. We'll pick you back up on the way down."

The girl, while ecstatic that he had popped the question, was a little embarrassed because she was wearing sweats. She had planned, she told me, on having dinner with his sister, and he had surprised her by showing up instead. So now, instead of that little black dress I'm sure she has tucked into her closet, whenever she puts on her "Raging Waters Lifeguard" sweatshirt, she will be reminded that this was what she was wearing when she got engaged.

I got back to South Gate. ~A~ pulled up behind me just as a red sedan came to a screeching halt at the corner of South Temple and Main street. The door flew open and people started yelling and screaming, the driver attempting to pull a passenger from the back seat. All kinds of swearing was going on, and I thought it was going to get violent so I called the cops to report a domestic issue, but they passengers exited the car, it took off down Main, and the people walked away.

Finally, Kar returned from her wedding appointment, and we mentioned that all of us were happy not to be driving our carriage right behind her. She had no idea what we were talking about, and got off the carriage to look at the back. Her wedding people had, unbeknownst to her, looped several rolls of toilet paper behind the carriage (that was the "streamers" I'd seen earlier) and she'd been driving around town like that for about an hour.

Weird shit happens to us all the time, but not usually all in one night. It wasn't a full moon, so there must have been something in the water.

Sometimes It's Better To Be Lucky, Or Anal Retentive, Than Good…

Dreamer, the day I got him

This blog is called "Confessions" of a Slave Driver, so I'm going to confess something to you;

My horse, L.P. Prairie Dreamer, is a World Champion Halter Horse. This means that at one point in time he was considered, by a club, to be the finest specimen of his breed in that club at that time. And I even have a halter to prove it. How we got it, however, is rather unconventional.

We purchased Dreamer in July of 1992. At the time the breeder we got him from was showing him on the Appaloosa Horse Club circuit (ApHC) in Geldings of '89, Most Colorful, and a stupid class called "Suitability for Dressage". Now, the first two classes involved walking your horse out into the arena and having the judge gauge him against the other participants for conformation and Appaloosa markings. He's a little guy, 14.3 hands but with excellent conformation, but at that time in the horse world there was a stud named Impressive who had been used to breed into the Appy, Quarter horse, and Paint breeds. Impressive, and conversely his get, were built like brick shithouses. Imagine, if you will, a horse with spidley legs, small feet, and ugly head, and a body like a Sherman tank. At the time, this was considered the epitome of Horse Perfection. Of course, the ultimate way of moving was called "Peanut Pushing" because the horse jogged with his nose almost touching the ground. Both of these eventually went out of fashion, along with ugly shirts and "taco" cowboy hats, but Impressive left his mark on the horse world, unfortunately with a muscular condition called HYPP, but that's a story for another day…

Anyway, when we purchased Dreamer he had enough points on him to be eligible for the ApHC World Championships being held that year in Fort Worth, Texas. Excited, and with huge dreams of having a World Champion horse, we assured the breeder that we would take him to the "World".

Besides being registered with the ApHC, Dreamer was also eligible for a registry known as the "Colorado Ranger Bred" Horse. This is a very selective group of equines that are descended from one of two studs, Max#2 and Patches#1. The history is interesting, and you can read all about it here, but being that I was a newbie at owning a horse, I made sure to cover my bases by registering him in the two afore mentioned clubs, and a new one I had read about in a magazine, the International Colored Appaloosa Association (ICAA).

Triple registered. Yes, I am anal retentive, why do you ask?

We never showed him in any of the Rangerbred shows, but it was pretty cool that he was eligible for their registry.

So, we went about the rest of that summer and autumn, showing him not only at "A" circuit shows but also little backyard and local riding stable shows too, to accumulate points for the ICAA's open show point program. It was a time in my life when Mr. Slave Driver and I were DINKS (Double Income No Kids) and we had both money and time to burn. Almost every weekend was filled with horse shows and the accumulated travel and experience that accompanies such.


Dreamer at the 1992 ApHC World Championship Show in Fort Worth, Texas


By the end of the showing season, Dreamer, who already had enough points on him to attend the ApHC World in November of 1992, was also, I was advised by the ICAA, in the running for the Champion of the adult division of the ICAA. This was very exciting stuff for me. All those long hot weekends spent running to non-A circuit shows paid off by accumulating points that eventually made us the winners! My horse was to be presented his title and all the accompanying accoutrements the following August in South Haven, Michigan at the ICAA's championship show. Would I, the ICAA secretary asked over the phone, be able to attend?

"You betcha!" I told her. It was January of 1993. We had taken Dreamer to Fort Worth in November of 1992 and it was a bust for us, although he did receive a 6th place ribbon in the "Geldings of '89" class. They place 1st - 10th at The World, and 6th sounds pretty good for amateurs like us. Of course, when speaking to a group of seasoned horse folk, we would neglect to mention that there were only six entrants in the class, so 6th was actually last. But that's a minor detail that was conveniently overlooked. I got a ribbon. Technically, it still counts…

Fast forward to August of 1993: I am asked to attend the ICAA Presentation of Awards Show. I'm also requested to drive from Northern Illinois, up to Kenosha Wisconsin to pick up the Junior Champion, her horse, and her guardian. Then I get to drive the three of us, along with two horses and our dog, Stormy, back down around Lake Michigan, take a left part way through Indiana, and go north into South Haven, Michigan. I do this during the height of Construction Season, driving a 22 foot motor home, pulling a two horse trailer, with no air-conditioning because the RV's thermostat keeps edging towards the red zone. It's predicted to be in the upped 90's with 90-95% humidity all weekend. Ah…weather in the Midwest! And the best part?
I'm now seven months pregnant.

Oh. Yay.

Dreamer and Slave Driver in a field, South Haven, Michigan

But I did it. (Looking back I see now that I was insane.) The junior champion's guardian was no help at all- she'd never driven a vehicle larger than a pickup truck, OR hauled a horse trailer (that was her husband's job…) We made it up to the show grounds, only to have a thunder and lightning enhanced downpour the next morning.



The show was cancelled, and our awards were presented in a tiny barn on the show grounds.



The ICAA secretary was there, and face to face I was able to ask exactly how well we did in the standings compared to the other participants. Remember, I'm anal retentive; I love to see the numbers in relation to my achievements. And she told me.

Dreamer, she advised, was the winner of the 1992 ICAA Adult High Point Halter World Championship because…He was the only horse entered.

But, technically, it still counts…




And, no matter what the numbers say, he'll always be a champion to me.

Rain Delay...

In case you've stopped by to read my post for today, sorry but this is it.

I have to pitch my novel at a Romance Writers of America conference that our chapter is hosting next month and it needs work… lots and LOTS of work. So, since not much has happened this week (thankfully!) I'm focusing on my fiction.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog hopping.

OR you could go watch the My Little Pony Trailer on You Tube because it's freakin' funny

When It's Time To Say Goodbye...

This one's serious, so if you're looking for shits and giggles, may I suggest you visit Cake Wrecks for today?

It isn't often that a pet will outlive you. It's a numbers game, you see. So, unless you are old, sick, accident prone, or own either a sea turtle or one of the members of the parrot family that live well into their seventies, most of us will, at some point in time, have to say goodbye to the furry members of our family. Those that do not pass because of an emergency such as poisoning, bloat, or a car vs. pet incident, or succumb to one of the many ailments that they, like us, are not immune to, will force us at some point in time to come to terms with that final decision.

We're getting close to that here in the Slave Driver household, and it's rough.

Cowboy as a youngster

We've had the pleasure of knowing Brown Dirt Cowboy, Border Collie Extraordinaire, as a member of our household since 1996. He was a replacement dog, as all of our canines have been. We started out as a two dog family way back when Mr. Slave Driver and I first cohabitated, somewhere around 1983. We added and subtracted over the years, having to do the unmentionable twice. We were fortunate that two other of our canines left of their own accord, one coming over to say, unbeknownst to me, her goodbye, gently placing her head in my lap for one last cuddle, before curling up in her favorite chair and slipping quietly into the night while I worked only a few yards away. And although she picked her own time, it was still very difficult on me, because I'd had raised her from a 12 hour old pup, abandoned along with her litter mate to die in a box on a loading dock. Mr. Slave Driver found them, brought them home on the back of his motorcycle, and we did what a Vet later told me was almost impossible; bottle raised them from birth to adulthood. Ginger Blah Blah was 13 when she died, the same age Cowboy is now. I loved her very much, but she was not what one could call a good dog. A pain in the ass, the polar opposite of Cowboy.

We brought Cowboy into our household, the first registered, purebred dog I have ever owned, to help me with the sheep on our farm in Missouri. As usual when I begin a project, I had no idea what I was doing; I only knew that their innate sense of what they were supposed to do was meticulously bred into them. He came from sheepherding stock, both of his parents working dogs, and together we learned how to accomplish what needed to be done. Cowboy would keep the various rams we had at bay when I entered the sheep pens to do the chores necessary for maintaining a small flock of sheep, (and if you've never been butted at full speed in the thigh by a ram, I can tell you from experience that that talent alone is worth its weight in gold). He would gather the ewes from the grass pasture, herd them into their smaller paddock for the night, or, when the apples had fallen to the ground in late fall and we allowed the sheep to roam our unfenced back yard to graze, he would keep them on our property, and away from the road.

As he got older, and caught on to what his position on the farm was, he expanded his duties. When we brought the horses into the barn for the night, opening the pasture gate for them to run into the barn for the evenings meal, he made sure they each went into their assigned stalls, nipping at their heels if they dawdled, standing guard in the barn aisle until each stall door was closed and locked, always with a pleased look on his face. Neat. Tidy. Border collies appreciate things being buttoned up tight, everything square and shipshape. It, along with their driving need to work, is genetically pre-destined.

Our chickens and ducks posed problems for him. Figuring out what to do after they would jump onto a fence rail to avoid him, you could see his brain working out the quandary, trying to figure out how he, too, could fly. Once the mallard drakes we raised were old enough to fly, and their testosterone kicked in, they didn't appreciate his herding and retaliated. I opened the side door once to let Cowboy out of the house, and all three of our ducks were waiting on the stoop, like a small flock of paparazzi. As he exited, they began to chase him, one of the tenacious little guys latching onto his tail with his bill, and laughing my ass off, I wished for a camcorder as Cowboy raced around the yard, trying to dislodge his hitchhiker, while the duck held on and madly flapped his wings. After that episode, if I opened the door and the Duck Gang was waiting to jump him, he would walk to the back door, and patiently wait until I caught on...he knew that to foil the Mallards you didn’t have to be real intelligent, you only had to be a little smarter than the ducks.

He hates baths, but on a hot day would leap into the horse's water tank to cool off, only his eyes and nose visible. We called this game, "Alligator in the stock tank" and it never failed to make us laugh as a hapless horse would approach for a drink then run away in terror as he popped back out right under their nose. Shaking himself off, he would stare at us with his expression of, "What? I was hot! Have you lazy butts not noticed I'm working here?"


Cowboy at Strut Your Mutt 2008.

Cowboy taught be that although it alright to be driven, to throw yourself into your work with a single minded purpose, and it's okay to have fun when the work is finished.

He has been the most intelligent, agile, and athletic dog I have ever known. He would watch you, anticipating that at any moment you might need his assistance. Like most Border Collies, he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and if you were not giving him a job he would invent his own. Killing the crickets that infested our old farmhouse was one of them, catching flies was another. On numerous occasions we would return to a home that looked like it had been ransacked; lamps overturned, phones knocked off end tables, books on the floor, and incriminating paw prints half way up the walls. But we knew better; there had been a fly in the house and Cowboy had taken it upon himself to hunt it down and catch it. Flies, by the way, are tasty. Spiders, apparently, are not. And while crickets are cunning and worthy prey, they are downright yucky, as evidenced by his willingness to catch them and crunch them with his teeth, but the spitting out and shaking of his head a testament to their nasty flavor.

There are so many things I want to tell you about him, his quiet loyalty, strength, intelligence, and willingness to jump in head first to whatever fray you were involved in. One night I heard a commotion out by the barn; it was 4:30 in the morning, still dark, and I took only a flashlight and my dog to investigate. We found the neighbors Rottweiler bitch and her grown pup attacking our sheep. One of them had ripped half of the tail off of our pygmy goat, and they were closing in on a ewe and her lamb. Cowboy, all forty-five pounds of him, chased both dogs off of our property, following them all the way to their owner's house down the street. It was one of the few times he ventured into the road, past our property line. He stopped at the edge of their driveway, making sure they retreated back into their yard. Returning to me he was ready to battle any other intruders, vigilant and faithful. Cowboy, I knew, always had my back.

Another neighbor was a dear friend, but he was also the propane delivery man. Cowboy never took a liking to Don, and I can only surmise that it was because the smell of propane gas followed this man around like a stinky shadow. If I could smell the acrid odor, I can only imagine that for Cowboy, with his millions of olfactory receptors, it was like having the gas sprayed directly into his face. One evening Don stopped by, and our then four year old daughter wanted to show him something upstairs. As Don and The Kid walked up the stairs hand in hand ahead of me, Cowboy inserted himself between them and kept trying to nudge their hands apart as they climbed. He did not like Don, and therefore did not want him touching a member of his pack.

Now he pants a lot, spends a lot of time staring at a blank wall, and occasionally groans when he lies down. We left Cowboy and Sammie Two Chews, our Pomeranian, at home with ~A~ house/dog sitting when we made our week long trek to Southern Utah last month. Cowboy couldn't make the jump into or out of the travel trailer, so we thought it best to leave him home. ~A~ reported to me that on one occasion he slid down a couple of stairs coming up with her from the basement. His vision is alright, with the exception of depth perception issues most noticeable when he's trying to catch popcorn. He loses the ball or Frisbee in the yard, usually finding it by scent. And he's deaf. That, or he's finally decided to just ignore us, which goes to show how intelligent he really is.

Now it's me who is waiting on him, watching him in anticipation of his needs. Now it's me who follows him around and herds him back into the house if he's wandered too far. Calling does no good, so we use exaggerated hand signs, which he seems to understand. His pride is such that, since he can no longer jump into or out of the truck, he'd rather not go. Unlike the Pomeranian, he is not a dog to be dressed up, fussed over, or carried around, and will not tolerate it. He has always had a great sense of honor, never steals food, or roots through the trash. He is not as obedient as he is well mannered, his own sense of propriety the guide he uses to choose right from wrong.

He is still, and has always been, a most excellent example of a furry family member, and as he has always done right by us, I will do right by him.

It's just really damn hard. I don't want him to go when he's still okay; but both Ro and MBA say their greatest regret with their dogs was: They felt they waited too long. I have no desire to rush into anything, but neither do I want him to suffer. But every time he groans, every slip on the stairs, every bad day when he limps from too much activity the day before, is another little hole punched into my heart. So, when the time comes, I can only hope that I can show him the same strength, loyalty and honor that he has shown me.

He's set the bar high, you see, and I'm only a human. I hope I can get it right. He deserves nothing less.

*It Must Be Something In The Dairy Air

My tribe took a ride north this weekend to visit Wease. Because her house is small we brought my travel trailer along to stay in. So, essentially we camped in her front yard.

All six of us were there Friday night; ~A~, Oli, Bill, The Fabulous Todd, Wease and yours truly. We went to a restaurant down the street from Weases for dinner because when we get together we tend to drink a lot, and after the first round of drinks we don't drive anywhere. The restaurant is within walking distance, so they get a lot of our business. A lot.

We checked on Kid, retired carriage horse, and fussed over Wease's new baby.



"Slave Driver fussing over a new baby?" You wonder."Is she sick or something?"



Well, it's a horse baby, so yes. If it had been the human kind we would have avoided Wease's place like it was infested with plague carrying rats and perfume snipers from Dillards.



Wease took The Fabulous Todd and I on what she calls "The Cemetery Tour", which is a ride through her neighborhood to, you guessed it, the local cemetery. It was quite beautiful, and Kid did excellent, only acting up a bit when a curious cow stood at the fence and mooed at us. Kid, you see, is a city boy, and it confirmed my suspicions that our horses are desensitized to the noise and pace of the mechanized city but if confronted by a bovine they would have reservations. Kid's reaction was to pick up the pace and jog a bit, which was a little uncomfortable for me since the gig is a two person vehicle and we had stuffed in three, The Fabulous Todd essentially sitting in my lap.



Wease wanted to show us a secluded house she likes, so under cover of darkness we rolled up their private semi-circular drive, Wease admonishing us to "Shhh," since we were giggling the whole time. Of course the clomping of Kid and crunching grind of the buggy wheels was totally not noisy… We called it an Amish Drive-by Shunning, and I have to wonder what the owners thought the next morning when they found wheel tracks and hoof prints in their driveway…

I imagine it was a "WTF" moment.

Upon our return we drank a lot more and played Rummikub, during which our conversation turned to a well worn topic—Zombies.

(I bet you thought I was gonna say Radical Animal Rights Activists, huh? They do have certain similarities.)

Wease noted that since my trailer has sleeping areas that flop down and are soft sided, similar to a pop-up camper (referred to in the Western RV camping world as a "Grizzly Bear Boxed Lunch") that Zombies would have easy access to the area where certain members of our tribe would be sleeping. Wease, you see, keeps a sword hanging on the wall in her living room, a la "Sean of the Dead", in case of an attack, stating that, "One can never be too careful when it comes to Zombies."

I had always thought the quote was "One can never be to rich or too thin", but that obviously does not apply to us.

We mapped out our plan, just in case, and it was decided by a majority that since Bill was inebriated, he would sleep on one end and be used as bait, so the rest of us could escape into the house to barricade and arm ourselves in case of an attack.

Bill, however, foiled our plan by sleeping in his car. Luckily the night was Zombie-free.

Saturday morning brought the end of the visit of both The Fabulous Todd and Bill, both of whom had other, seemingly better, things to do, so they left and we decided to go into Idaho for breakfast, a bit of shopping, and lottery tickets (no gambling of any kind is tolerated legal in Utah).

We were also running a little low on booze. Go figure.

After shopping we spent the rest of the day drinking, eating, and playing Rummikub, with the exception of taking a break to watch an old movie called "The Dancing Pirate" which we picked up at a five and dime in Preston, Idaho, mocking it Mystery Science Theater 3000 style.

Ah, good times.

We even manages to have a campfire and roast marshmallows.



And, of course, we got tattoos, which is traditional when we go visit Wease. They're the stick on kind, but it still counts. Because, as everyone knows, Like garlic for vampires, tattoos ward off Zombies. Which is another reason we used Bill for bait. He does'nt have any.




We never did fall victim to a Zombie attack. We did, however, learn that Oli not only considers "7" to be a number, but it's also a color.



*Cache County, Utah, is famous for its dairy products. The overall odor surrounding Wease's home can only be described as "cow".

Hey, Tony, Why The Long Face?

Excuse me while I do a little bit of personal business here for a moment, would you?

Slave Driver raps on her laptop screen

SD: "Belle's Personal Assistant, Helllloooooooo, BPA, wake up!"

Slave Driver shakes her laptop to get BPA's attention

SD: "Last night I was informed by a person in a KSL chat room during a discussion about the carriages that our horses are worked until they are near death then sent to slaughter houses and turned into dog food or shipped overseas for human consumption. Can you look out your window and tell me if Belle is standing out in your pasture?"

BPA: "Absolutely, she's looking at me right now."

SD: "So she's not in a can of Alpo?"

BPA: "No."

SD: "Does she look like she's been worked to death?"

BPA: "Absolutely not."

SD: "Was she near death when you got her?"

BPA: "Absolutely not."

SD: "Do you think she misses carriage driving?"

BPA:"No. This is a horse that doesn’t miss carriage driving, but she probably misses pulling. She wasn’t cut out for it that’s why she was done."

SD: "Do you think that she's a better riding horse because of it?"

BPA: "She is a better, safer horse now because of her exposure to the downtown environment. The thing about the horses in Salt Lake is, they are given a chance to acclimate and if they don’t they are sold, and not for meat. Mia & Carl are in pasture, Mikey, my favorite, is in a pasture, and since he was so important to me the owners let me know that he was sold to an older couple so they could give their grandkids rides."

"I would sign up to drive Jim, Charlie or Bart any day of the week, because I know they will not freak out. I also know that the carriage horses never suffer from malnutrition, which is a problem that I've noticed in other horses I've looked at."

"Belle has no foot problems because they kept regular trims on her and farriers tell me that she has excellent feet."

SD: "Thanks, BPA. When I was told all of our horses go to slaughter I was worried."

Slave Driver calls carriage driver Wease.

SD: "Hey Wease, can you look outside and tell me if Kid is still in your back yard?"

Wease: "Yes he is."

SD: "And do you still use him to pull your meadowbrook cart?"

Wease: "Yes, I do."

SD: "How does he react when you put on his driving tack and pull out the cart?"

Wease: "He loves it. He starts acting like a four year old colt."

(Kid is around 28-30 years old)

SD: "Has he had any problems since he retired?"

Wease: "No. He lives in a pasture, eats lots of food, he has weight problems like any older horse might, but that's not the carriage barn's fault."

SD: "Does he seem stressed when you drive him?"

Wease: "No, he loves it. Horses need a job, just like people need a job. I hook him up and he steps out. His personality has not changed since he came here. He's still the same rock solid horse who wants to work which was why everyone loved him."

SD: "Okay, Wease, thanks a lot. I was just checking."

(I'm going to visit Wease, along with other members of my tribe, and I'll be driving Kid on what Wease calls" The Cemetery Tour" this weekend.)

See, I contacted the two former carriage drivers because when I was told this information I was worried…

Okay, not really, because while listening to the Director of the Utah Animal Rights Coalition part of his argument for banning carriages was because, "The horses look sad."

(Anthropomorphism: an.thro.po.mor.phism : the attribution of a human form, human characteristics, or human behavior to nonhuman things, e.g. deities in mythology and animals in children's stories.)

He also stated that "The horses are denied water."

Really? Then why do I haul that five gallon bucket of water around under my carriage? So when we're bored we can bob for apples?

Charlie likes to look around at stuff when he's working. Ace typically falls asleep at South Gate. Jerry will follow you around the pen when you walk in to get the horse you're working with, and will repeatedly attempt to stick his face in the halter. Bob tries to cuddle up with you when you're standing at South Gate holding his lead rope. And Jock, who was 30 when he retired and 33 when he passed away, lived out the remainder of his days at the Carriage Barn. The owners would close the gates and he was free to wander the property. He would occasionally walk into the shed housing the vehicles, turn his big body around, and back up to the front of a carriage, waiting to be hooked up, which he never again was, because he was retired.

That, my friends, was a horse that looked sad.

Mares Eat Oats, And Does Eat Oats, And Little Lambs Eat...Oh, Crap!

It's been an exciting weekend around here, sports fans. Let's see; first I went camping for the weekend, not too far away, just over to Nunn's Park in Provo Canyon.

Ro stopped by, with her son, to see Bridal Veil Falls because she's never been there, although she was born and raised in Utah.



(Insert eyeroll here.)

Then on Sunday morning I checked my mail on my phone and I got an email from a person I know in NYC who is in the carriage industry asking if everything out here was alright. She knew about the runway.

"Runway?" I say to myself. "What about the runway? Out by the airport? I don't live by SLI; the carriage barn isn't by the airport…WTF is going on at the …" I read the message again and it says "Runaway". Okay; in my defense I didn't have my reading glasses on and I neglected to hold my phone at arms legnth. So, now I start to tweak. My friend ~A~ was working last night. My other friends were working last night. What the heck… so I call Ro.

Ro has no idea what I am talking about. She tells me to call Kar. But first I call ~A~, but she doesn't answer. Then I call Kar. As it ends up she did not work last night due to an unrelated injury. Finally it's Marky-Mark who I call, last because I figured he was in church, but he gave me the skinny and you can have it too, right here

And here:

Aaaannddd here and here and, well, you get the picture.

A horse has an episode, does a small amount of damage to a parked car, freaks some people out, runs over a cop's bicycle (which he kind of ditched under the carriage when he came to the aid of the driver) and it MAKES THE NATIONAL NEWS.

Hey, guess what? Last week the guy who lives at the end of my block ran a red light and got T-boned by a semi. He was killed instantly. Also last week a guy ran over his kid and it died. Ted Kennedy succumbed to brain cancer. Will you be seeing stories about brain cancer, distracted driving and Spot the Tot? No. Why? Because, PETA wants you to believe that animals are more important than people, that's why. And because there is no organization full of zealots called PETP.

Bad things happen around the world every single day, and much of it will never hit the national wire services. A lot of it won't even make your local news. Why? Because stories about things that we have been desensitized to are just not "news". 120 years ago a "story" about a horse that runs off was not news. Today it's a sensation. A call to arms.

Which makes me ask, where were the boo-hooers and the hand wringers when a guy pulled his horse out of a trailer out in Utah county, shot it, and left it to rot in a ditch? Where were the online news story commenter's when they found five dead horses out in the Grantsville/Tooele area?

And where are the ALF folks when the person in charge of the Norfolk, VA humane society left her dog in her car for four hours on a hot day, and then it succumbed later that night because of the heat?

Oh, yeah, they're going to be sitting in their air conditioned offices raging because Jim decided to spook. That's where.

Silly me.

So, here we were at lunch today, discussing the incident. Property damage. Minor (very minor) injuries to the driver, Jim the horse walks away unscathed. We discussed how it hit the AP wires, and what the other possible fallout could be, besides the owners being responsible for the damage to the car and the bike. We go our separate ways.

Later Ro calls and tells me: Hey, I got a call from a lady this afternoon. She saw the report on the news this morning, and she says, "My daughter is getting married and I thought what a nice way to have them leave the reception. So I copied the phone number down from the video and called to book a carriage."

(Insert Ro and I, ROTFLOAO)

I guess there is no such thing as bad publicity.

Choose Your Condiments Wisely

Spending a week with two teenage girls can be an enlightening experience in many ways.

"Let me explain. No, there is too much; let me sum up."

I use the terms "Weaksauce", "Awesomesauce" , and "Uber-Fail". The girls advised me that the correct terms, which of course I do not know because I am not 15, are "Lamesauce", "Cool Beans", and "Epic-Fail".

(Okay, Epic-Fail I know but I often forget "Epic" and grasp "Uber" out of my melon oblongata because, for some odd reason, it's easier for me to remember.)

I advised that my contemporary slang was derived from Jumping Percheron's Stacey, who is much more hip (and younger) than I am. The girls insisted that Stacey could not possible be more hip than they are. My defense of Stacey included the information that she is in the Air Force, lives in Hawaii, and is teaching her Percheron mare to jump. They still insisted that Stacey could not possibly be cooler than they, so I threw in that she collects and drives DSM cars (whatever those are) has a drivers license, and therefore her mother does not have to chauffer her around. They acquiesced, and I won that round. However, they still insist the correct terms are Lamesauce and Cool Beans.

While in Chicago The Kid and I were shown sign language by my little brother to indicate "over sharing" and "inappropriate comments."

They are called the TMI Turkey


















and Awkward Turtle.










We don't use too much non-ASL sign language here for fear of being mis-identified as Latin Kings or Bloods when in fact we are Crypts because we look best in blue, although we are also partial to the color purple.

Last week I modeled my pirate costume for The Kid, and asked how it looked;

SD: "So, do I look like a Pirate?"

The Kid: "No. You look gay."

SD:"So… I look like a gay pirate?"

The Kid:"No. Just gay."

SD:"But…these days it’s hip to look gay, right?"

The Kid:"Not.In.Your.Case."

I come from a generation where we used terms like Groovy (which I heard at least twice while camping from the teenage girls) Cool, and Far Out. Now, I dislike the term "Far Out" because some people use it over and over as a comment or response for everything and I just want to smack them. Wease, for example, was uttering the term continuously awhile back until I threatened to kill her in her sleep. Of course I would have to be a Ninja to sneak past the pack of dogs that sleep on her bed, but she stopped using it so the threat didn't have to be carried out. I once had a trainee who used it so much my eyes glazed over and I was trying to figure out which location to push him off the carriage would do the most amount of damage when he decided that he was just not cut out for a Carriage Driver's Life and "Went to use the john" forever.

I recently sent out a tweet (yes, I'm on Twitter) about a novella by Victoria Dahl titled "The Wicked West" and immediately got a response from an automated program that searches for tweets with the word "Wicked" in them and auto-responds with one of a select number of phrases. I found this almost as annoying as the "Far Out" trainee.

So, I propose that we officially make the terms "Weaksauce" and "Awesomesauce" because I refuse to be out-hipped by two 15 year old girls. No matter how phat they think they are.

Ahoy, Mateys!!!

I be workin' in the wheelhouse when Wench Ro hailed me on the squawk box and be inquiring if I be available to do some plundering on Saturday at the Elderly Scallywags Lair.

I was sitting around doing nothing when my boss Ro called and asked me if I could help her do a specialty at the Christus St. Joesph Villa Senior Center.

I be considering attending a conclave fer the Sundance Slaves but parlayed that I could work it into me agenda.

I was invited to a Sundance Volunteer party but would be able to squeeze it into my schedule.

Wench Ro swabbed the decks of the dingy, pressed ganged Black Hearted Charlie into service and sailed the high seas to the Scallywags Lair.

Ro loaded the carriage into the trailer and we got Charlie Horse out, tacked him up, loaded him and headed out.

The tradewinds be not fair sailing for the schooner so we did a bit of rowing to speed up the knots in the shipping lanes, and with no leaks or beaching we finally arrived into port.

The truck is a p.o.s. and I thought we were going to have to get out and push it up the onramp for I-15 but eventually we made it…never going over 45mph on the highway which made the folks driving behind us very happy…

We arrived at the Elder's fort and low and behold! The scallywag landlubbers kept a-boardin' us over and over, but they never managed to overpower our fiery crew; Black Hearted Charlie gave no quarter, Wench Ro was in charge of loadin' the cannons, and I, the Dread Pirate Roberts, was on the poop deck, observing the battle and takin' no prisoners!


The gig was driving the seniors around the parking lot. It was their annual family day and had a pirate theme. Charlie chugged around for ninety minutes, and was absolutely fabulous when people were rolled up to his face in wheelchairs to say "Hi"; he stood rock still ( with Ro's help) as some of the less mobile residents needed assistance in and out of the carriage.

Finally, with the bloody sunset the battle came to an end, both sides calling it a draw. We loaded up our ship, hoisted the skull and crossbones, and sailed for our secret pirate cave, vowing to return next year with more dangerous men and ammo, and take the treasure for ourselves! Argh!!!


The people in charge were thrilled that we dressed up and want to make sure that Ro and I come back next year for the Luau theme, when, even though he's a gelding, we will make sure that Charlie Horse get's lei'd.

Camping Defined Refined

One last post about my "camping" trip, and a little info about me.

People who know me would ask about my vacation plans and cringe when I announced that I was going "camping."

"Camping?" They would sneer with a shudder. "I hate camping. It's so… dirty and primitive and uncomfortable."

So allow me a moment to explain my version of "camping";

I do not hike three miles into the woods with only a rucksack, mosquito net and pointed stick as my equipment. I consider it to be "camping" when I stay at a hotel without room service. And even when we did, on occasion, camp in a tent, we did so in a campground and I always got a site complete with water and electric. I had my own porta-potty and shower (they make very nice 3X3"shower" shelters now for just that purpose) and would bring a 20 inch box fan, portable DVD player, and my coffee maker because I do not like to be inconvenienced.

Mr. Slave Driver, during one such excursion, remarked that he was surprised that I had not brought along a window air conditioning unit. I replied that the suggestion was asinine- the tent window would never support an A/C, and they were all out of the free standing units at Lowes, so the fan would have to suffice.

Mr. Slave Driver— snort followed by an eye roll.

Those drivers that work with me know that I continue this theme even driving carriage. Upon returning to the barn in the evening they grab their few meager possessions off of the carriage they used and head into the driver's room. I, on the other hand, make at least three trips back and forth, collecting all of my junk. This is one reason why I have one of the "big" lockers. Plus I pounced just at the perfect time, when Michelle announced she was quitting, and I glommed onto her locker before it had even cooled.

On the other hand, when someone needs something, guess who they come to? Forgot your rain coat and now it's pouring? See SD. Headache/cramps/pulled a hammy and looking for some Advil Love? SD carries a veritable pharmacopeia in her bag of tricks. Need a pair of gloves? Check. Dental floss? Besides cleaning between your teeth it also works well when a minor fix involving tying stuff together is necessary— and it leaves that DIY fix it project smelling minty fresh.

So, to get back to the original subject, camping to me is not the "camping" that the Boy Scouts do, it's staying in an efficiency apartment filled with your stuff, that has wheels and you drag behind your truck. It simply changes zip codes and scenic views. Sometimes you have cable and Wifi, and sometimes you have squirrels and bats.

But you always have your stuff, your coffee maker, and your bathroom.








(Authors Note: with this last travel post I will return to my normal blogcast schedule of Mondays and Thursdays, unless something really exceptional happens or, when no blog is present, nothing happens. Thank you and have a nice day. Or, if you can't have a nice day, just have a day.)

Capitol Reef Gets No Love—

I know it's been a few days, but we returned home and had to unpack and remember, I've been "gone" for close to a month now. So needless to say there was a lot of stuff to catch up on.

We packed up Saturday morning and headed to Torrey, Utah, which is 1) just outside Capitol Reef National Park and 2) is in the area I'm setting the next story I've got in mind. I am a little bit familiar with the area because of a Carriage Drivers Campout I went on with my buddies a few years ago but my family did not accompany me on that excursion so they were newbies.

Unlike the other parks which mostly go down in elevation because you are on the top, Capitol Reef rises up out of the ground to breathtaking heights as you drive along the highway. We stayed at an RV park in Torrey that is adjacent to the plateau rising at the base of Thousand Lakes Mountain. It's very impressive. No little foothills, no pre-curser to what you are about to hit, just wham! Wall. You can see where the mesa sides have crumbled and formed little "ramps" of rock leading up to the face.

Now, let me tell you the weaksauce part; we've been to Yellowstone, Grand Tetons, Zion, and even the north rim of the Grand Canyon, but this? This is fabulous and it was virtually empty! And even worse this was one of three "Freebie Weekends" the government had to promote the national parks system. Most years there is only one free weekend. So even on a free weekend, Capitol Reef can't get no love.

Sad.









Anyway, I have to go and run errands now. I need to get some "real" writing done, not just my blog stuff (no offense but nobody's ever gonna want to publish this blog… few people are reading it these days anyway, so— ) and I have to come up with a costume for Saturday since I'm helping Ro do a gig at a senior's center and the theme is pirates.

Argh! PIRATES!!!

Take A Hike!

At Kodachrome Basin State Park we drove around for a while and then took a hike.

At one point we let The Kid drive (she has a permit, God help us…)
because the park was fairly empty and we were on a deserted dirt road. It surprised us that this park was so empty but the ranger at the gate said because it's so hot here in August the park gets little traffic but it picks up again in September.

Named for the Kodak product, because of its photographability (I know it's not a word, but you get the point!) I found it ironic because they just recently quit manufacturing that particular line of film.

So, once again, beautiful. Empty. Colorful. And then of course, because despite our ages we're really immature, we giggled all the way out of the park because of one particular stone…structure.

The Devil Is In The Details

Red Canyon, just outside of Bryce



















So far this week we have gone to a different place every day, with the exception of Tuesday when we fished in Panguitch Lake. And every day I turn to my posse and say, "Okay, now this is my new favorite park," because it just keeps getting better each time.

Thursday was Bryce Canyon, and it is full of awesomesauce. It's difficult in this day and age to impress the MTV/CGI/iPod generation because they can see the most fabulous things on TV/Big Screen without getting off their butts, even if those things don't exist in reality because of the magic of special effects. So, it's pretty cool when you can impress a teenager.

Bryce Canyon="Cool Beans" ("Cool Beans", for you people who are either bereft of teenage company or live under a rock, is a good term, an impressed term. A platitude.)















We started waaay up here

And on a completely random musing, it's interesting to note that a lot of "outer space" based movies are filmed here in Southern Utah because of the terrain and landscape. One of my favorite Tim Allen movies, "Galaxy Quest", was partially shot down here, along with parts of the newest "Star Trek" film.




















We went down this a way

Anyway, Bryce Canyon: Very cool, and we went on a 1.5 mile hike that kicked my @ss .

Two Bridges






















I have a bum knee and an even worse hip, so long walks going uphill are painful. Not to mention that I'm really lazy. And I've elevated whining/bitching/moaning to an art form. But to truly appreciate your environment you have to get down in it and that's what we did.
















Hoodoos




















Bridge, which is really an arch; there was a big fire in this area just this past July. Remember: Only You Can Prevent Forrest Fires! (Except for the ones caused by lightening...

Gettin' Your Zi- on

Zion National Park

While I was planning our camping trip, The Kid came to me and asked if she could bring a friend.

"Which one?" I inquired, because some of her friends grate on my nerves like sand in your underpants.

"K," she responded.

That brightened me up immensely because I like "K." She is a sweet girl with a fun personality and fits right in with our mocking, teasing, quick witted family. You have to be fast on your feet in our clan or I guarantee you will not survive.

And it was a good move, allowing The Kid another one of her species. She is an only child and has been raised in the company of adults all of her life, but even we can't sink to the unbelievably silly machinations of teens when they are bored beyond belief, so it's good that they keep each other amused, even if it is at the expense of our sanity…The Bordom Twins

On Tuesday we rented a pontoon boat and went fishing on Panguitch Lake. The girls huddled under a sleeping bag at the start because it was early (7 am) and a bit chilly but later they crawled out from under their shelter and joined in. Chilly Chicas



On Wednesday we went to Zion National Park. The Kid and I drove through it last year when we returned from Tucson, and we raved about it so much that Mr. Slave Driver insisted that we include it in this years vacation. We ended up having dinner in the town of Springdale because the girls were starving and it would easily be a two hour ride back to camp.

Hiking made the girls very hungry
It was beautiful but a loooooong day, and the ride home through very dark, winding, deer and cow infested (free range cattle out here) roads was …intense.
Can I eat it?
But it was a great day, and we returned to the trailer exhausted. Today (Thursday) is Bryce Canyon which is much closer and not quite so large.

And yes, I will need a vacation after my vacation.

The Occidental Tourist

Ro says my blogging while on vacation is boring. Sorry. When I go "away" I try to be a tourist, and therefore less jaded than I usually am… so here are some boring notes from an occasional tourist.

Utah: Many times people, sometimes in the course of me doing my job which is closely related to tourism, tell me that they find Salt Lake City to be beautiful. I always say "Yes, it is." But the truth of the matter is thus:

Salt Lake is to Utah what an ugly, red-headed, pimply faced, uncoordinated fugly looking stepchild is to the Pitt/Jolie family. It's o-kay…when seen alone and from a distance. But when measured up against its wilder, scenic, majestic cousin, Southern Utah, it clearly loses the beauty pageant hands down, and here's why:



This is a very tiny, almost (when examined next to a park like Grand Staircase Escalante) microscopic national park named Cedar Breaks. It is where we went today. I adore Southern Utah. Arches, Dead Horse Point, Zion, all breathtaking with their weird and hypnotic hoodoos, windows, canyons and other geological formations made by wind and water. Soft red and white sandstone sculpted into fantasy figures that tweak the imagination. Chessmen, T-Rex, a trio of nuns, all fascinating to view, and they almost change shape depending on the angle and time of day you look at them. The beauty that surrounds you at times leave you awestruck and speechless.

Slave Driver- speechless! Well then you know it's some good shit.




On the way back to the campground we're staying at we saw this guy;

Clearly workin' it old school. Him, his horse, and his dog, herding the sheep.






And my apologies to any of you who may be ugly, red-headed stepchildren. Salt Lake really is beautiful...on it's own, alone, in a corner.
This is probably the ugliest picture I took all day, and it's the view of Panguitch Lake from our campsite

Home Again, Home Again, Piggly Wigg

Yes, I know, I'm behind on my blogging, but I think I made up for it last week, don't you? I've returned home from two wonderful, fun, feckless, but exhausting, weeks in Chicago. It was great to see my homies, a Cubs game, Italian Beef sandwiches and Pizzeria Uno. But I missed my husband, my dogs, my carriage tribe, and the big pale blue sky of Utah. Now I'm home for four days and then guess what?

Yup, going on vacation…

While I was away Ro sent me a text to tell me that Cletus missed me. I called her upon my return and asked, "Why did Cletus miss me?"

"Because he needs someone who loves him and babies him like you do," she replied.

So I assume that I have Cletus this Saturday when I work.

Tomorrow I go to lunch with Ro and maybe MBA and give them their precious tourist chotskies (souvenirs) and catch up on all the gossip important business thingamabobs transactions that have occurred while I was away. Then I do a crapload of running around trying to get my stuff together in time to leave for Panguitch, Utah to go camping.

Yes, camping. We like to camp, and because I think that the definition of "camping" is staying at a hotel without room service, we bought a travel trailer, so our camping this time will be the big deluxe kind. There is supposed to be Wifi at the RV Rark so I may even get to blog. But as usual I will take tons of photos. Utah is the most beautiful place I have ever lived, and I love photographing it.

So, once again you may or may not hear from me for a while but like that annoying critter in the "Whack-a-mole" game I should surface occasionally. Until then, talk amongst yourselves.

My Bad...

Okay, for some apparent reason todays blog which I posted pictures to Thursday morning and published today is sandwiched between Wednesday and Thursday, so scroll down past "Go, Cubs, Go!" if you want to see it. It's mostly photos anyway.

Go, Cubs, Go!

You may not know this, and it's my secret shame… I am a …Cubs fan.

Yes, yes, I know. "Why, Slave Driver," you ask, "would you want to put yourself through that heartbreak and humiliation year after year? Why would you want to subject yourself to the anticipation and excitement of a baseball season only to, at the end, have your heart violently ripped out of your ribcage, thrown down, stomped and ground into the dirt, and then jammed back into the spot it came from, all mushed up and filthy?"


I don't know, but it's probably because 1) I've always rooted for the underdog and 2) Cubs fans are, without question, the best fans in the entire world, and 3) Wrigley Field is a beautiful place.

So while here in Chicago I decided to try and catch a game. At Cubs.com they didn't have any seats (I may be a fan but it's still me—uber-frugel SD) for less than $225.00 that were together and I was not shipping The Kid off to a section on her own (she is kind of cute and, when a person of the male gender asks her name we've begun to introduce her as "Hi, this is our daughter, Fifteen.") so my Bro, The Kid and I decided we would go head down to Wrigleyville and see what we could manifest.

When you go to a game the energy builds the closer you get to the ball park. We arrived and immediately were assaulted by scalpers. We decided to see what the official box office had to offer first and use the "ticket re-sellers" as option #2. We also know that as soon as a game starts the scalper's prices fall because if you can't unload your tickets you've wasted the money you invested in them to begin with.


So we walked around to the back side of Wrigley— now, if you've ever caught a Cubs home game on WGN you have noted the "rooftop fans," people who sit on the rooftops of the brownstones across from the park and watch the game. These "seats" can be very pricy, and include food/beverage for upwards of $80. But you must admit, it's ingenious and lucrative.



Anyway, we got in line and got Standing Room Only tickets



which means you get to stand along the back railing on the ramp between the mezzanine level and the upper deck.



















The view was great




and the price fantastic— only $15 each, which was a bargain compared to the bleacher seats at $36, and yes we did have to stand the entire time but it was okay.



And I got to see a game and guess what…





So we got to sing the song :)

Randomness In Chicago...

A short collection of some photos I took which really don't belong anywhere... but that didn't stop me from wanting to share them with you.

This afternoon I head out to Schaumburg, Illinois to a place called Champps American Bar and Grill to meet up with my friends. We'll be there at 7, come join us if you can. Then tomorrow I head to my reunion at the racetrack. I know I'll be there early so I can watch the horses run. Why do you think I came all the way out here?


Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore.


WTF is the point? To keep those bricks safe?


I guess it's better than selling them on eBay...

The perfect combination for me...Wine with some nutritional value :)

A giant sloth. I know a number of people like this, only not as tall.










As soon as we pulled into the driveway I knew this was the handywork of my friend Fuzz...

It's Not Who You Are, It's Who You Know

Argh! There be Pirates in this here building...

The Kid and I went to The Field Museum of Natural History. Amongst all of the attractions in Chicago, The Shedd Aquarium, Museum of Science and Industry, Art Institute, it has always been my favorite. The last time we went to the Planetarium I fell asleep. It wasn't because of the show, but it was warm and dark in there and I was tired. I wasn't the only guilty party, Mr. Slave Driver dozed off and a guy two rows in front of us was snoring.


So anyway, my sister-in-law is a volunteer for the paleontology department at the Field Museum and she got us into the lab where they work scraping the matrix away from the fossilized bone.



She's working on the tip of the tail bone of a dinosaur they call "Jim" (after the fellow who found it.)



Jim, an Ichthyosaur, was discovered in Nevada, so Jim and I are neighbors.



This is what Jim might have looked like

After my SIL showed us where she worked she had to leave and The Kid and I wandered around the museum for a couple more hours then walked to the "L" stop and took the red line to the brown line and that’s how we got back to my brother's house. But first we stopped at the Jewel/Osco and got some Okey-Dokey Cheese Popcorn and some Jays Barbeque potato chips, which I jones for because you can't get them anywhere else.



The Kid and her Aunt. The Kid is getting weary of me taking her picture all the time.

Wherever You Go, There You Are...

I dragged my posse to Michigan Avenue last night. I wanted to catch a carriage ride and talk to some of the drivers in Chicago. My first carriage experience was here about 27 years ago. My best friend turned 21 and we took a ride to celebrate. Last night, The Kid and my baby bro (38, so no not so baby-ish anymore, but still...) sat in the carriage and chatted about me totally ignoring them while I talked with our driver, "C-Squared". I made sure she knew that I would be interviewing her for my blog and agreed not to use her name because that's how we carriage drivers roll.
This horse's name is Orsay which C-Squared said is French but to me sounds a little like Pig-Latin...


C-Squared has been a driver for Chicago Horse and Carriage for three years and works it full time. To be a carriage driver for the company C-Squared works at you have to train for two weeks, and take a test. The costs involved are $40 for fingerprints, (Fingerprints, seriously? So they have them in the database for all the crimes commited by horse drawn carriage banditos? WTF!) and $30 for the license after you take a test. You are allowed to take/fail the test three times, and if you Epic Fail the third time you have to wait a year to re-take it. The company she works for also is a lot stricter about hours, scheduling, and credit cards than the one I work for. So, yes, I know how lucky I am.
The horses have their own drinking fountains

So we had a pleasant ride around the city, chatting about the carriage trade, and she dropped us off at The Water Tower where there were a bunch of drivers staging.


Then we walked to Navy Pier and hacked around for a while before taking a cab back to the parking lot and heading back to my brother's place.

The Good, The Bad, And The Fugly...

Fireworks on the Fox River to celebrate Founder's Day

There are so many things about the Midwest that I missed without even knowing that I missed them. While here I am spontaneously reminded of those small touches that accompany living here. While waiting in heavy traffic to make a left turn a driver will stop and wave you through. People hold the door open for you and smile when they talk to you.
This is a floating ice cream stand. Up on the Chain-o-Lakes there is a floating hot dog stand too. They have a bowl attached to a stick and that's how the product/money get passed from stand to customer.


At the marina yesterday during a downpour a man waiting in line for the bathroom, who happened to be holding an umbrella, stepped closer to me and held his umbrella so I was covered too. Then later, while standing in front of the bathroom yet again, waiting for The Kid, another man asked if I needed the door unlocked (there are "public" restrooms and restrooms for slip holders. I had the slip holder key but he didn't know that.) My brother, seeing another boat pull into the dock, ran over to the slip and helped the owner maneuver his pontoon in.

You get the feeling that since we are all stuck in the Mid-west together we might as well make the best of it. There is a joke that goes, "You know you're in Chicago when, if while shopping at Lowes, a guy helps you collect all the supplies you need for your project, and he doesn't even work there."

The things that I do not miss: Toll booths, Mosquitoes so big you can saddle up and ride them, humidity so nasty that it makes my hair go all frizzy and curl up, and this:

The Kennedy "Expressway", at a dead stop.

A 47 mile ride took two hours.

And I have to say that I have not seen so many Cubs shirts or "Old Style" signs in a long time.

It's good to visit. I'm downtown now for the next few days (my younger brother lives behind a "Brown Line" stop.)
And I think tomorrow it might be Field Museum Field trip.

Short And Sweet

Our "official" Chicago welcome.
There is something about the smell of a riding stable that's good for the soul. It's not a barn smell; it's not an exclusively animal smell, either. It's a combination of the horses, hay, leather, and the excitement oozing from the pores of young girls who are enamored with horseback riding.

Tuesday through Friday of this week, I visited the town of Twin Lakes, Wisconsin, to stay with my very good friend and equine mentor, Sally Thompson-Smith, BHS. Now, usually I don't tell you my friends' entire names, and sometimes the names I used are aliases, but not Sally Thompson-Smith, BHS, and I will tell you why in a minute.
First, a little background;

Sally and I met when I moved my horse from the stable where the girl who had been my trainer was flaking on me. She quit her job, left her husband, and moved in with a guy who was twice her age, had a 13 year old child, and, oh, yes, was married. I don't know what became of them because I got out of that cluster f*ck before I got any more late night "Have you seen my wife I miss her so much," calls than I'd already received. The last I heard the man, Ralph, who transported horses for a living, changed his name to Rafee (pronounced Raw-fay, with a little accent thingy over the "e" on the end) and was touting himself as a high end trainer of Arabians, Saddlebreds, and National Show Horses, which is a breed that combines the two. In other words, horses who do a lot of crack. Or at least act like they do.

Sally was the in-house trainer at the barn we moved Dreamer to. We were hoping that the change of venue would give him a more grounded environment since the last place had run amok. Plus it was much closer to home.
Sal and I hit it off right away. She took me under her wing and taught me more about horses in three years than I learned in the previous thirty. When I had my kid, we joked about me sending her to live with Sally when she was 13. And when she was 13, that's exactly what I did, for two weeks. Now, this is where the BHS comes in. Like other people who decide what they want to do for a living and go to school to get a degree, Sally wanted to be a trainer so she spent a year in England being schooled in hippology at the British Horse Society. She is knowledgeable in all aspects of riding, from Polo to Dressage, from Western to Eventing.

Anyway, we spent the first three days of our vacation at Whispering Oaks Farm under Sally's tutelage, and in between we ate, and went out and ate, and of course ate some more. Sometimes we went out to eat. But mostly we ate. ( It's a Chicagoan/food thing. You wouldn’t understand unless you'd lived there and then moved away, like we did.)



















This horse is named "Baby" and I have known him for 17 years.

It had been so long since I was at a riding stable that I had forgotten so much of the protocol; to shout "Door" before you enter so as not to spook someone riding by. To announce your intention of passing another rider, always on the inside (never on the rail). In other words, common equine courtesy. And breeches. The Kid and I wore breeches there every day, which in the non horse world makes you look freakish. The riding stable world has a culture all it's own.
the Kid got to ride a lot, and we got to ride together which never happens because at home we only have one horse.



So you will be hearing more about Sally Thompson-Smith, because she is going to start blogging once a week or so on the subject of horses, and mostly it will be short and a lot of tips and tricks. But if you are a horse person, you need to pay attention, because Sally really knows her stuff.

'Cuz she's got the whole BHS thing going on. And she's a freakin' genius when it comes to horses.

Leavin' On A Jet Plane

I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow. I'm pretty stoked except for a few minor details. For one thing, I don't like to fly. Quote me all the safety statistics you want, I'm just not comfortable with it. Remember, in my line of work I go four miles an hour and am a max of five feet off the ground, so bailing out doesn't require a parachute, just a "Jump, tuck and roll." Plus, I've watched A&E's "Airline" enough to know that they aren’t too keen about you boarding a plane drunk, which is how I like to fly. I depart at 7:00 am, and I seriously doubt they will have a "Breakfast Happy Hour Beverage Service," although being that I am flying into Chicago, anything is possible…

It's not the actual flying I mind, it's the relinquishing of control. I don't know these people who are the pilots, and the FAA & NTSB frown upon you knocking on the cockpit door and grilling the flight crew about their qualifications and experience. Ask anyone who's driven me around in their car, I use that imaginary break on the passenger side a lot. Mr. Slave Driver believes I will soon wear a hole in the carpet in his truck. As it stands right now it's looking suspiciously thin on that side.

So that's one thing, another is my dogs. I avoid kenneling them if I can, and for several days they will be alone. The neighbor kid is taking care of them for me, but Cowboy, the Border Collie, is old; deaf, grumpy, cataract old. To get his attention one has to either stomp on the floor until the vibration alerts him, touch him and if he's sleeping he JUMPS! or gesture wildly with the appearance of a seizure. Then you have to use a form of sign language to get him to comprehend what you want, which is mostly for him to go outside because his gas passing has reached critical mass.

Upon my arrival in the Chicagoland area, I will be renting a car. My friends and family are spread far and wide, and I haven't actually lived there since 1995, so getting around will be a challenge for a person like me who navigates via landmarks. I'm sure a couple of things have changed in the interval, so I've spent the last two days downloading addresses into Mr. SD's TomTom so I can find my way.

Lastly, while many of my friends live in the 21st century, some of them still engage in a quasi Amish lifestyle, meaning they don't have wifi. What that translates to you is I may or may not be able to blog from the road. I will, however, be taking lots of photos and accumulating many stories in the mean time. Blogging them will all depend on what my various hosts have for internet connections, which can run the gambit from DSL/Cable to 2 tin cans and a tight string. So if you don't hear from me for a while, that's probably the reason. Or, something's gone terribly awry.

So, in the words of Homer Simpson, "If I don't come back, avenge my death."

Jim, You Really Should Be Flossing...

Last weekend Nat showed me that Jim was a little foamy. I didn't think much of it; I don't ever drive Jim. I give a lot of historic tours where my attention ratio is divided in a 70/30 split between customer/horse. What that boils down to is this; I like my horses like I like my men; laid back, self sufficient, and willing to turn their paycheck over to me every week.

Jim? Not so much. He's a feisty little guy, and he takes a lot of work to drive. I think I've told you, I'm way to lazy for that shit.

Cletus= fabuloso, could do the job all by his onesies if he had 1) thumbs and 2) spoke English.

Tony too, except for his need for constant affirmation;

"Good boy, Tony! I knew you could do it! It's not every day a kitten hisses at a horse and the horse survives… and I know those leaves that rustled when you walked by were hiding a grizzly bear."

Charlie is pretty level also, except for the occasional and totally random "explosion."

Anyway, back to Jim. Jim's slobber was foamy. Then Monday night MBA went to give him kisses and she said his breath was stinky. So of course, what do horse people do?

Immediately Ro & I went over to Jim and smelled his breath. And yeah, it was nasty.

So Thursday I met Ro over at the clinic and Jim went to see the horse dentist.

Now, for you non horse people, and for you newbie horse people who have never had the pleasure of the horse dental experience, I've taken some pictures for you.

First, we had to convince Jim to get into the stocks.

Jim is not too sure about the whole "stocks" thing.


















He JUST fit. Jim is half Percheron, half Morgan. It's a good thing we didn't have to bring Wesson out for a dental appointment.
























"Hey, ladies, does this make my butt look big?"


















Then the Vet gave him a shot of lala juice and soon the meds kicked in and Jim was Mr. Mellow.
























Then they put him in the device. It's like…well, never mind. It's like a, well, no, that's not it either… it's like… well, here is what it is, you decide what it's like:



















And found that Jim had a tooth that started out growing south and took a U-Turn.



















So they had to use this thing which is usually not used for this purpose (and no, you do not want to know what it's actual purpose is…) to get in there and saw his wrong-way tooth into submission.

Because they don't make orthodontic braces for horses.

Although Jim would probably like a very blingity bling Grill.


















So here is Jim's tooth, or part of it.


















He was kind of a baby about the whole thing.


















But he'll get some time off and be good as new real soon.

We put the piece of tooth under some shavings in his pen. We told him the Tooth Fairy would give him an Apple for it.

Now I gotta bring a damn apple into work tomorrow. I thought I was done with this crap when my kid turned 12...

Sweet Home, Chicago

I know you know this; I am not *from* here. Utah, here. I was born in Northern California but I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago. I have Midwestern values, speak with an unidentifiable accent, except when I say "Da' boda yas", and am generally unconcerned with fashion trends, tipping points, and politics, except to smirk and remark blandly, "He was on the take? What a surprise..." If that makes no sense to you then I won't even attempt to explain the "Daley Machine."

So, I am not *from* here. This mindset got me deep in the kitty litter when I lived in Missouri, where I also was not *from*. See, I say I'm from Chicago. That's just for da boda yas that are not from Illinois (the 's', by the way, is silent). If I was in Illinois, I'd say I was from Des Plaines, Lake Villa, or Wheeling; places I lived. So I found out the hard way that when you ask someone from Kansas City, Missouri if they are *from* there, meaning the greater KC area, they believe you are asking if they are *from* the exact spot they are standing on when you ask them the question. So, take my advice, be specific when you ask because the words you speak immediately following their reply might get you in deep doo-doo.

But I am *from* Chicago, and I am going back to Chicago (and Algonquin, and Arlington Heights, and Twin Lakes, Wisconsin) in a couple of weeks for a couple of weeks to see my family, friends and attend my 30th High School Reunion.

Feel free to puke now.

I missed my 10 year— at that point 10 years was not nearly enough time between school and me. Now, the 20 year, I did that one, but I don't think I did it well. Although I got to see some people that I keep in touch with but just don’t see very often, I saw a lot of people who I don't remember, but that's not unusual for me; it was the 70's. I also saw a lot of people who really really liked me, or at least that was the impression I got. But they could have been realtors or Amway members. I don't know. It's kind of a blur now, but I know I went because I have a picture.

For my 30 year I figured, "F*ck it." I will not wear a nice dress/suit. I will not wear heels. I will wear what I wore all through high school—

Levi's, tennis shoes, and a t-shirt. I might throw a blazer over the top just to show I'm a grown up. Slave Driver snorts…

My close friends all know what I do for a living. Most of them, upon finding out would remark, "That job is perfect for you." The ones I knew in school but have not seen for ten to thirty years, (wow that so sounds like a prison sentence…) have no idea and I'm sure will either think it's great or gasp and wonder how I ever could have sunk so low. Others will marvel that I have managed to stay out of jail for all these years.

But I don't care. No, I never became a captain of industry or a mogul of some kind. Hell, I never even finished college. But I have a great life, enjoy doing what I do, and have no major complaints, other than my continuing fight with gravity.

And the thing about gravity is this: It's not just a good idea, it's the law.

And a word of advice: If you are ever in Missouri and ask someone if they are *from* there and they say "no" meaning (unbeknownst to you) that they are not from the exact spot that they are standing on but instead are from the surrounding area, do not follow up your question with the comment that "The people you have met *from* here are some of the stupidest people you have ever known."

Not a good impression. Or the fast track to making friends.

Rodeo-doh!

The people who work with me know I am infamous for two sayings:

"Everybody has a "once-upon-a-time","
and
"This is not my first Rodeo."

The first meaning, "We all had to start somewhere" and the other "Been there, done that."

Which really have nothing what so ever to do with this post except that I went to the Rodeo last week and it was not my first.

We go to this rodeo every year because 1) it's relatively cheap 2) it's very close, and 3) we usually don't have anything better to do anyway.

I like the rodeo because, unlike most of the other people there, I cheer for the animals. So, when a bull bucks the rider off in under 8 seconds, or a calf refuses to be thrown to the ground and hogtied, I'm over in my seat saying, "Yay! Go steer, go steer!" and doing the "Cabbage Patch" while those seated around me look on with distain. I don't care, it's my rodeo too, and if I want to cheer for the animals, try to stop me. And besides, I use to own sheep, which I had to shear, which is like trying to hold down a fuzzy, kicking, 120 pound sack filled with Jell-O, and shave it. So yes, I have been there and done that.

Anyway, here are my rodeo pictures, and a little video I took towards the end when it was Bull Riding time.
















I love the little guys. Here they are wearing their party hats to protect their noggins and horns.
















The catch riders go out and pickup the cowboys after they've ridden the Broncs or the Bulls. They get to ride alongside a still bucking horse and pull the strap off that makes it buck. Yeah, that looks like fun...

















This was a bucking Bronc (as opposed to a "Saddle Bronc" )

















It's always the same announcer every year, but this time he had to borrow a horse because his wasn't feeling well. He favors Paints.

















This is one of the Drill Team horses. Drill team is tricky. My horse Dreamer did Drill Team for about a month. He wasn't a big fan.
















Drill Team
















The "Mutton Busting" is by far our favorite because we used to do it on the farm, for reals. These ladies stopped by for a visit.
















Here we have a bronc rider doing a faceplant
















And here we have a bull getting away unscathed



















So the "Break Entertainment" was J.D. Platt and his Amazing Dogs. For those of you who don't watch reality television, J.D. Platt and his dog Galaxy were on a show called "America's Top Dog" which was a competition for dog trainers. *We* got sucked into watching it because there was a Pomeranian and a Border Collie; both breeds co-habitate with us so we considered it "friendly competition". I'll say this about J.D. Platt; He can throw a Frisbee hella far. Otherwise, his show was kinda meh.

And now, "Revenge of the Bull"

Top Ten Reasons Why I Love Driving Proposals...

I don't want to be a hater. My last two posts were a little negative, but that's just because, well, you get the picture. So, here is my positive post, written from my happy place.

(By the way, in my "Happy Place" the wine is always chilled to perfection and there's lots of it. Your "Happy Place" may vary.)

The top ten reasons why I love driving proposals:

10 Proposals are almost always fast.

9 I used to sell Jewelry, and I'm one of the first people to see the ring.

8 I am a witness to an event the rest of the family/friends don't get to see and the other two people involved will always remember. Fondly, I hope.

7 I have never had a "no".

6 95% of the time you get a tip.

5 Some of them are very involved, creative, and well planned.

4 They are never late.

3 We do a lot of them in Memory Grove which is a beautiful ride.

2 It's amusing to watch the guys hyperventilating.

And the #1 reason I love driving proposals:

No one ever displays their show of affection using sparklers.

I have my proposals (yes, that's what they are…they happen in my carriage so they belong to me) run the gamut from simple:

Young man in a military uniform drops to his knee right in front of me and the girlfriend before getting on the carriage and proposes. He jumped the gun on that one in the respect that he should have waited until he was actually on the carriage, but since she was seven months pregnant I guess it all evens out in the wash.

To the not quite spur of the moment (he did after all have a ring):

I picked up a couple from the Little America. He is toting a guitar. He sings a song he wrote to his intended, and then produced a ring.

I picked up a girl and her soon-to-be mother-in-law from the Joseph Smith Building. Just when you think the S-T-B M-I-L is going to climb on the carriage she produces, out of a huge tote bag, a laptop, already booted up, and sits it on the seat opposite the girl. Pressing "play" the laptop runs a power point program complete with music, photos, video and voice over narrative, as slick as a campaign commercial. The boyfriend had produced masterpiece montage of their relationship up to this point, emphasizing the reason why the girl should say "yes" to what he is about to ask. By the time we reach Memory Grove, where the Proposer has arranged a beautiful picnic, the girl is bawling and my horse, Tony, and I are getting close to doing the same.

Then you get proposals that are so intensely involved that it takes a tribe of co conspirators to pull the whole deal off.

One night I arrived at work and was given a map. This map was a rendition of Temple Square, with seven spots marked with an "X".

I picked up six women at The Lion House (start "X").

Just down the street in front of The Joseph Smith memorial Building is "X" number two. One of the women in the carriage says, "Oh look, there's my Prince." A man walks up, helps his wife off of the carriage, and hands The Intended two red roses.

We drive up to South Gate, "X" number two. Another woman says, "Look, there's my Prince." A man walks up to the carriage, helps his wife to disembark, and hands The Intended two red roses.

The ride proceeds in this manner until the only two people left in the carriage are The Intended and I. I'm driving and she is holding 10 red roses. By this point it is obvious that something is in the works, and because part of my job when driving proposals is NOT to blow the surprise, we make small talk. Luckily for me, our talk focuses on a pickup truck that has passed us not once but twice. It's full of furniture and it's apparent that someone is moving. However, lacking tie down straps or bungee cords, a very nice looking and well built shirtless young man has sprawled himself across the items to keep them in the bed of the truck. He is yummy looking, and we are enjoying the view. A lot.

Rawr.

I finally arrive at the final "X" on State Street, which has a beautiful view of the O.C. Tanner Fountain and the Temple. I was told that the Proposer was going to jump on the carriage at that point and I would drive them to South Gate while he does the deed. Instead, he gives his intended two red roses, and whisks her off of the carriage, and they proceed to walk down State Street, out of sight. I assume to propose, because he didn't do it in front of me.

I was actually really disappointed with that one, only because I felt so cheated. All that foreplay, and no climax.

Bummer.

Why I Hate ... Continued

Okay here's the deal; I was going to write about how much I love driving proposals, (not being sarcastic here, I really do enjoy them) but to tell the truth I'm not finished ranting about weddings yet, and here's why:

They suck.

In five years I've probably driven 200 weddings. That's what you get when you own a Tuxedo jacket. You get to do weddings because you "clean up good." I tell folks I love this job because you get to be with people during the happiest times of their lives: Birthdays, anniversaries, etc. Let's face it, most people don't get downsized and say, "I just got fired, let's go on a carriage ride!" But, although happy for the bride and groom, weddings are stressful and take a huge toll on a person's limits, including mine. Someone read my previous post and called me "jaded" (they also were under the impression that I am a guy…) I don't consider myself "jaded" really, but I can be uber-cranky. (And of course let's not forget the whole "mouthy & opinionated" thing.)

I drove another wedding Saturday night. Not only did it suck, but it was weird. I'm not going to elaborate, just trust me…creepy and strange. And not in a "Spiderman marries Wonder Woman" kind of way. Just…odd in an "Oh God I wish I could shower right now," kind of way. It reminded me of the wedding I drove last December where the bride was a total bitch and married a guy who looked like if Rod Stewart and Skeletor had a baby, he would be it, and so obviously gay it wasn't even funny.


















PLUS















Equals Super Creepy Groom...

(Hint for future brides: If your man spends more time on his hair than you do, you might want to rethink. Trust me, seen it more than a few times.)

Crazy Shelley reminded me Saturday evening of another reason why I hate driving weddings and it comes down to a very simple thing; fireworks. And being that this is the kickoff to "Independence Week" I think it's fitting that I expound on the subject.

Horses and Fireworks:

Unlike Peas and carrots, deep fried Twinkies and obesity, and Madonna and foreign adoptions, horses and fireworks do not go together. "Why," you might ask, "wouldn't an animal that operates on the "Fight or Flight" plan, weighs between 1500-2200 pounds, and has the reasoning ability of, oh wait, they don't have the ability to reason, not like fireworks, specifically sparklers?"



Because, Slave Driver replies, they just don't. There are some things you do not argue about, and horses and sparklers is one of those things. Never mind that they smell like sulfur, sound like rattle snakes and are on FIRE, but we just don't use enough sparklers around the horses on a daily basis to acclimate them to the hullabaloo.

So, imagine our chagrin when, after being hired to pick up a B&G from their nuptials, we arrive to find the front of the building looking like a Michael Bay movie set. People line the walkway, holding sparklers over their heads (burning temperature, BTW, approx. 1800 - 3000 degrees) in a configuration reminiscent of a sword arch in a military wedding, cheering as the bride and groom (in expensive and/or rented clothing) walk underneath the flaming sticks and get into a vehicle powered by an animal who is now completely unhinged. An animal who, up until our arrival at Casa de Pyromaniacs, was just fine, but now wants to be any freaking place but there!

Crazy Shelley and Bob had just that experience the other night, and it surprised me because some time ago The Barn placed a moratorium on firework pickups. In fact I believe the direct quote was "If you have sparklers, we won't be there." I think we should use it in our advertising.

But, any way you look at it, fireworks and horses do not belong together, and we try to keep them separate as much as possible. Some of our horses don't even like bubbles, but that I believe is a personal preference. And at least people have stopped throwing rice, which I'm sure Charlie Horse is sad about because knowing him, he'd be all over the sidewalk scarfing up the grains as a snack.

And I promise to talk about proposals soon, because they really are fun, and not rant-y at all.

For more information about the exciting world of wedding carriage driving, direct your browser to this classic gem from May of 2008:

The Wedding Crashers

Why I Hate Driving Weddings

Besides all the foofey gooey stuff and the ugly dresses my poor horse has to be subjected to viewing, and including the people who have no clue that horses do not like sparklers, weddings boil down to one basic equation:

They are a pain in the ass. The Bride and Groom are always late. The photographer thinks he's Annie Liebowitz. The videographer thinks he's Quentin Tarantino. They rarely carry any money to tip anyone (bellmen and valet included). Bridezilla my ass, it's more like mother of the bride-zilla.

So, here for your Day-Runner pleasure, is a timeline for a wedding I drove on Thursday:

8:00am that’s what I set my alarm for, but of course I woke up at 6:50 because God hates my guts and wants me to be sleep deprived forever. It didn't help that I stayed up late reading Victoria Dahl's newest release, "Start Me Up" which is excellent, BTW.

Okay, enough pimping, back to the timeline:

(I was told the wedding was at noon)

8:20 Ro sends me a text asking if I want donuts. No. I detest Krispy Kreme, and if I'm gonna consume that many calories it better give me a buzz. And nobody makes "Wine Filled" Bismarks.

9:45 I leave for the barn.

10:15 I arrive at the barn.

10:16 I find out the wedding pickup has now been moved to 12:30.

10:45 my carriage is pulled, a "Just Married" sign has been attached, Rex is groomed and tacked up.

I now have 1 hour to gossip with Ro and talk to Wease on the phone before I need to change into my wedding togs and hitch Rex to the carriage.

11:50 Hitch Rex to the carriage and head to West Gate. It's a beautiful day, hot and sunny, so I let him walk real slow.

12:00 I get honked at because of the "Just Married" sign. As the honker passes he must be disappointed because no bride and groom are present, leaving him to wonder if Rex and I have just gotten hitched. Which we have, but in the literal sense. Not figuratively speaking.

12:15 Arrive at West Gate.

12:26 Put my fancy long black jacket on so I look professional (translation; So I don't look homeless.)

12:32 I am sweating like a pig in my long black coat on a black carriage. My black jeans are stuck to the back of my legs and my thighs have cooked to a medium well.

12:35 Girl from Toronto starts talking to me asking questions about the horse, carriage and wedding couple. She is very concerned that they are five minutes late. She asks what happens when the Bride & Groom are late. I explain:

"The hour they booked will get them pictures and a ride up to Memory Grove and back. Fifteen minutes late gets them a City Creek ride and pictures. Thirty minutes late gets them a Temple Tour and pictures. Forty-five minutes late gets them up the street and back, plus pictures. An hour late gets them zip."

12:37 Guy walks up and asks me if I have change for a $20. I don't give people change. MBA got burned big once being nice and giving a guy change for something that looked like a $10 but it was a sham and she was out $10 bucks. Guess what folks, I'm not an arcade/retail store/casino. Get change from someplace with a cash register.

12:45 I text Ro: "Are you sure these people KNOW they have a carriage ride?"

12:50 Ro calls and ask if I've made contact with "My People" yet? My People? Who am I, Moses? I tell her "No."



12:55 A guy walks up and asks if Rex is a Belgian. "Yes," is my reply. He then proceeds to tell me about his Belgian and that he rides it. "You must have had a pretty wide tree on your saddle for it to fit him. I imagine it's kind of like straddling a Volkeswagon."

I can tell by the way he's looking at me he had no idea what a saddle "tree" is. He wanders off.

1:00 I call Ro, she confirms that the person booking the ride was advised the "ride would be over at 1:30." See, when you make an appointment, your "ride" starts when your appointment begins. So, for example, if you had booked this ride, I've been on your ride for half an hour now. You just haven't been present.

1:05 Rex and I lose the shade since we've now been sitting at West Gate forever.

1:07 A mom and two kids walk out of the Museum of Church Art and History. One of the kids starts hacking away on a cheap harmonica. This annoying noise goes on for a full five minutes. If I didn't have a horse to attend to, Harmonica would become a suppository.

1:08 Young man in a white shirt and red tie strides purposefully to me while chatting on a cell phone. He asks if I am there for the blahblah wedding and I say "Yes." He states "They're running a little late." I advise, "Yeah, they have twenty-two minutes left."

1:13 Rex falls asleep.

1:14 Red tie returns and asks if they can extend the ride. "Sure, but it'll cost forty buck for a half hour," I say. He wanders away, cell phone glued to his ear.

1:15 I move Rex forward about ten feet so we're back in the shade again. I take my fancy jacket off because a river of sweat if now running down between my shoulder blades. My pits are soaked. If I was a fruit, I would now be ripe.

1:21 The Bride and Groom, along with red tie, the photographer, and the father of the someone arrive. They ask if they can still get their ride. I tell them "Sure, but it'll be really short. Why don't you take some nice pictures while your photographer is here." I put my fancy black jacket back on.

So they did. And they got about a 12 minute ride, along with lots of photos.

And that's how I spent my Thursday, and why I hate driving weddings.