Getting to the bottom of it all

(Sorry, nothing about carriage driving today. Just more stupid stuff.)

I have a disease. A disorder. Maybe you could call it a medical condition, I don’t know. It’s called Packrat-it is. Some would refer to it as just being lazy; that’s okay, I can take it. But whatever name you want to nail it down with it comes to this: Instead of putting shit away where it’s supposed to go, I pile it up on other stuff.

This creates a bit of a problem, like arsenic building up in your body. Eventually it starts killing you.

For me, it crescendos into such a chaotic environment that I am unable to function. Instead of going to my office and doing what I should be doing, I look in as I cruise down the hall, feel the bile rising in my throat, and keep on going.

Ah, the perils of a short attention span.

This was the last known address for my desk. It's probably under there, somewhere. The computer monitor lets me know the approximate location.




So, since it’s cold and dreary today, with the chances of it staying the same for the next three days, I will clean out and reorganize my office. I have no excuse to go outside and play, and there is only so much shopping I can do at the Wal-Mart. Everyone else is at work or school, so my companion list is down to the dogs, literally, and neither of them seems eager to play, which is weird. Maybe it’s the barometric pressure. Or maybe they too are sick of the way the office looks and are forcing me into a time out.

This the OTHER desk. It's not my real estate, so I don't have to clear it off.




So, dressed in my fatigues, bandolier across my chest, Bowie knife strapped to my calf, trash bag in hand and paper shredder revved up, I’m going in, ready to accept death before dishonor in the war with Officestan.

And do me a favor, if I don’t come back, avenge my death.

This is a futon. I've turned it into a file cabinet. Sort of.















Blog update, later that same day...


Success!!!


Okay, I got in, got out and nobody got hurt, mission accomplished! Yay! Clean office. And I’ve the pictures to prove it!


I found the desk!



And the other desk is clean too except for the Tick-like teenager stuck to the front of the computer. I tell ya, you spray and spray and you just can't get rid of them!





And last but certainly not least, the Futon is clean, which is good, because now I'm gonna take a nap!

If “If” and “Buts” were candy and…oh, never mind, we’re all stocked up on nuts.

Working directly with the general public in my capacity as Slave Driver and Greeter to the People Walking Down the Sidewalk in Front of Temple Square, I deal with a huge volume of humanity.

Many of the people I am exposed to are families, or foreign tourists visiting Temple Square. It’s the biggest tourist attraction in Utah (believe it or not, even with all of our beautiful State, National Parks, ski resorts and recreation areas) but a lot of them are locals. Or, as I like to say, “Loco Locals.”

We have a number of individuals in the downtown area familiar to us because of their status. They are the homeless, the addicted, the unstable, and the disenfranchised. Most of them steer clear of us because we have a certain reputation. The panhandlers know not to even bother asking us for money. For many of us, carriage driving is our second job. For some it’s even a third. Ask us for a handout only if you wish to be mocked, or jeered at.

Last week I had run-ins with two of the unstables. One was a woman I was not familiar with who was changing her clothes in front of the wall that surrounds Temple Square, talking to herself, loudly, about how she was a black woman who was a member of the church, was sealed in the Temple, and did not have a tail. She was also cutting her clothes up with a pair of scissors. MBA was so concerned about the woman’s welfare that she asked the woman not to cut her clothes up. The woman proceeded to “Go Off” on MBA, yelling at her, getting louder and more random in her rant. When I returned from my ride I asked Church Security (We call them M&M’s, Mormon Mafia) to contact the Salt Lake Police Department. MBA wanted then to get the woman some help, I just wanted her to go away. They talked to her for a few minutes, gave her a business card, and she went away. Mission accomplished.

MBA was unhappy with the outcome, she wanted them to take her away and get her some counseling. I was happy that she didn’t take the scissors to us.

A year ago last February a young man decided to take a walk through a shopping mall called “Trolley Square.” He took his walk with a handgun and a shotgun and killed five people before being taken out by the SLPD. Unfortunate for the people at Trolley, but lucky for us, because two days before he was reported to be wandering Temple Square.

This past Saturday evening I had an altercation with a gentleman we refer to as the “Drunken Horse Whisperer.” I am all too familiar with him because several years ago he followed my carriage down the street, stumbling with intoxication, until I got Cletus into a trot and outran him.

He, apparently, at one time was a horse trainer. Being a trainer myself I know it can drive you to drink, but for me it was the people, not the horses, who were at the wheel on that trip. Horses are cool, many of their owners are idiots. Anyway, he has recently resurfaced. He likes to rub all over the horse, fondling their ears, talking to them, and generally be annoying. Not to mention the alcohol fumes which emanate off of him like “stink lines” in a cartoon. Saturday he tried to take a Newbie’s lead line out of her hands at which time I stepped up and told him it was time to go bye-bye. We allow people to pet the horses, but making out with them crosses the line. Fiddling with their tack, bumping them with their shoulder, or coercing them into an out and out revolt is not tolerated. At all.

He never swears at us (unlike some of the other crazies folks I deal with) and hasn’t brandished a weapon, yet. If he tries to take a swing at me one day, weaponless, I know I can take him, because, well, I’m kind of nasty, have big muscles and an not under the influence of any artificial additives other then the sheer euphoria generated by the endorphins I get from being a carriage driver.

Pause for maniacal laughter. Slave Driver wipes away a joy induced tear, and now her stomach hurts from the guffaws.

Ah, that was good.

Okay, where the Hell was I?

I don’t believe in “Horse Whisperers.” I hated the book and the movie. Natural Horsemanship is a load of bullshit brought to you by people trying to soak the uneducated horse owner out of their money, using terms that are a lot of Voodoo Mumbo Jumbo Crappola. A horse learns by discipline. Now, before you get all uppity, grab a Dictionary and look up the word. Discipline means “To Teach, by rote or repetition” not “To Beat the Hell out of.” And if any of you see Curt Pate, I want my $8.00 back.

So, since Drunken Horse Whisperer is back in town, I will continue to have him move along, away from the carriage horses, who do not need or deserve his “attention.” As much fun as we have at South Gate, we are, in fact, trying to do business. We have a job to do, the horses and the drivers. And I guess I will have to become a “People Whisperer.” I will whisper “Salt Lake Police Department” and “Drunk and Disorderly” until he learns by rote and repetition. And if he takes a swing at me, I will beat the hell out of him.

That’ll learn him.

The Wedding Crashers

I was looking over the writing assignments I have for the writers group I belong to and nothing in the themes for this month catch my fancy. Nothing next month either. Oh, look, July: Independence, Languages, Pioneers, Marathons, (Marathons? Everyone in this group is like, 60-100. I’m one of the youngest people there and I’m 47. It’s very scary.) Parades, Fireworks…


Fireworks. I can do that. I can even tie it to Carriage Driving. How? That’s easy, ready? Set? Away we go…


We do a lot of weddings in the carriage trade. It is the ultimate end to the fairy tale…As the sun slowly sets on the horizon, the bride and groom are whisked away to their happily ever after in a golden carriage with a team of delicate white horses and coachmen dressed in their regal finery…


Okay, you’re really more likely to get Tony, who is a Belgian Draft and therefore more Palomino than white but he is certainly the same size as four delicate horses, just lumped into one honkin’ big palooza. The carriage color choice is limited to black or white, however there are a few different interior color schemes, but odds are most of them will be covered in dog hair from Harley, resident barn dog, who naps in them.


“Naughty, naughty dog! Oooh, come here big goofy fella, I can’t stay mad at the Harley dog too long…”


Sorry.


You could get a Cinderella pumpkin carriage, but… not in Salt Lake. You need to go to Kansas City for that, they have them around the Plaza. I almost got a job there but you needed a Chauffeurs license to do it and, well, I’m just to freakin lazy. Then I read in the paper how one carriage barn owner put out a “contract” on the other carriage barn owner and decided that it just wasn’t worth my time. I have a teenage girl, I already get my recommended daily allowance of drama, thank you very much.


Of course you could ask for the hearse, if you’re going the Anna Nichole Smith route, marrying a man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. It could be a two-fer!


And then there’s your delightful footmen…okay you get one, unless the driver has a trainee, and if it’s winter don’t expect any finery at all. Your driver will arrive bundled up to the eyeballs, looking the size of a Yeti due to the layers of clothing. Now, during nice weather we do clean up a bit (at lease some of us do) so your driver should have on a white shirt, maybe a jacket or vest, cowboy hat or if you get Jason he’ll arrive wearing a Dickens era cape and top hat. He always reminds me of the Bud Lite Here’s to you, Mr. Horse Drawn Carriage Driver commercial. Anyway someone will show up, on time, wearing clothes, we hope, with a horse and carriage.


Dream. Come. True.


Now, upon the arrival of the here-to-fore mentioned horse/carriage/driver, you are expected to get your ass out of your reception and get in the ^!*%#@ carriage. NO WAITING! We are busy, busy people, carriage drivers are. We have lots to do in a day, which may include but is not limited to: slowing traffic down to a mind numbing crawl (and if you honk at me, I’ll make Tony go even s l o w e r, and I bet you’ll think that it wasn’t possible, so nya!) We have gossip to gather and disperse, stories to tell, rides to sell, people to watch and then make hilarious and/or catty comments about, panhandlers to turn down, pedestrians to try and run over, and to top it all off we double as the fashion police. So, hurry up! And if we cool our heels (all six of them) more then ten minutes or so I get to charge you wait time, like a cab driver, but mine is about $1.30 a minute. So might I suggest that you peel Great Aunt Agnes off of you and ship her to your Mom. You gotta go.


Sometimes your family will feel the need to accompany you to the carriage and show their love, devotion and happiness for your marriage in various ways. Traditionally, rice was showered upon the bride and groom but someone said that it killed the little birdies so people stopped. Then they started throwing bird seed at the bride and groom but someone said it made the little birdies obese and lazy because they weren’t out gathering their own food and then the birdies started hanging around weddings with little birdie panhandler signs that said “Will peck for seed.” Oh, no, wait, that was a cartoon I saw.


I think I’m becoming hypoglycemic…That or I ordered a double mocha peyote latte at Starbucks and I don’t remember.


Anyway, bird seed, rice, flower petals, bubbles, all that crap is fine. I don’t have to clean it up, and the only birds I ever root for are the family of Peregrine Falcons that live on the side of Joseph Smith Memorial Building and eat the pigeons and sea gulls. But don’t, and I’m not kidding here, don’t get the brilliant idea to use SPARKLERS as a going away salute!


Sparklers, you say? Why, that would be lovely. How romantic to send off the bride and groom using HOT METAL STICKS COATED IN GUN POWDER THAT ARE ON FIRE!


Can you tell I feel strongly about this issue? You wanna know something? It’s not me, I love fireworks. We go out of state and buy the good ones. Oh no I don’t do that that would be illegal. We buy the crappy weak ones and put on a little display in the driveway every year…But half of the carriage driving equation is the horse, and you know what?


Horses, it turns out, are not big fans. They don’t like fireworks; the smell of sulfur, twinkley things that shoot out sparks, the sound of sparklers (sounds a bit like a rattle snake), bright shiny things or stuff that is on fire.


Make a note of that last item.


Horses don’t like things that are on fire.


Okay, is that clear? Because if not, then let me explain: Horses do not like things that are on fire! End of story. Horses are not people, you cannot reason with them. It’s like having a 2400 pound toddler pulling your Radio Flyer Wagon around.


They don’t like Mimes, either, but neither does anyone else and few people throw Mimes at the bride and groom these days anyway.


So, when choosing your method of sending the loved ones away to their final destination, ask yourself; Do you feel lucky, kid? Because a calming, romantic carriage ride after the stress of a wedding and reception is a wonderful way to decompress and end their day. Sparkler-less.


Of course they’re really going to end their day boinking each other into oblivion, but you don’t want that mental picture. So just keep thinking about the golden carriage and the four delicate white horses high stepping it off into the sunset.

Leave the fireworks for their hotel room.

I know you’re somebody, I just can’t remember who…

Monday night I drove carriage with MBA, my Monday night driving buddy, and the evening started out as uneventful as Monday nights usually do. I had a 4:30 appointment, an hour ride up to Memory Grove and then through downtown. The couple was nice, from Utah, and had never been on a carriage ride before. Same old same old. Then MBA and I stood around for a while, having valuable face time shooting the bull when a man and a boy escaped the south gates and approached us.

Since I was at the front of the line and MBA had two appointments that night to my one, MBA tipped her head to let me know they were mine, she wasn’t even going to attempt to steal them from my grasp. MBA is like that, kind and generous, wanting to make sure things are fair and equal. Last week I hooked an hour ride right about the time we were supposed to quit for the night and she got stuck hanging around until I was done. Sucked to be her but she managed to catch a short ride around the square while I was gone so it wasn’t a total waste.

Anyway, the man was tall (okay, compared to me everyone is tall) and as I looked waaay up and gave him my sales pitch I kept thinking I know you from somewhere.

A good carriage driver is able to judge the mood of their customers. Some want a historic tour so you talk almost the entire time (this job is perfect for me because I can talk for hours about almost anything) some want a romantic ride so you shut the hell up and drive, and sometimes if there is a group of people they like to chat amongst themselves and occasionally ask a question about you, the horse, the city, the church, whatever. So I plopped them into my carriage and asked;

“So, are you from Utah?” (He looked familiar, so he could be a local)

“No, L.A.” He replied.

“Here on a vacation?” Asked me.

“No, I’m working on a production in American Fork.”

American Fork is south, out by Mount Timpanogos. It’s a beautiful area. I mention that “Footloose” was filmed at the Lehi Roller Mills, which is close to there. I also mention how funny it is to watch because it’s supposed to be Nebraska and, wow, I didn’t know the Rocky Mountains extended out all the way to Nebraska. Then we chatted about the Sundance Film festival, The Assembly Hall, Conference Center and the Temple. I took them to memory grove and he remarked how beautiful it was, and how he’d never guessed that a park that nice was so close to downtown. I told him that they had filmed the miniseries “The Stand” in that area before the tornado had wiped out 432 trees. I asked where he was staying and he told me which hotel, so, knowing the location I advised him not to go to the park south of his location (Pioneer Park) very bad place, unless you’re looking for drugs, prostitutes or a souvenir knife wound.

But the entire time I’m thinking “I know you’re an actor, I’ve seen you acting, I just don’t know who the hell you are…” And yet this small voice in the back of my brain kept repeating “My Bodyguard.”

Of course I dismissed it. That movie was made ages ago. I was still a teenager, almost. And I knew I’d seen him in something more recent, but I hate asking because clearly he was on a ride with his kid, wanting to have some quality Father/Son time, and as the Lynyrd Skynyrd song says “Don’t ask me ‘bout my business and I won’t tell you goodbye.”

So we went along my route, him asking questions, me answering. At one point he said “So I take it you’ve lived here all your life?” to which I replied “Heck, no. I’m from Chicago, baby. I’ve only been here five years but I love history.”

He did ask about the Bonneville Salt Flats, and after I answered his question, he said that it was where they had filmed “Independence Day.” I mentioned that Bill, one of our drivers, had been an extra in the RV/Rabble scene where they flee to the safety of the mountain.

We ended up back at South Gate, he paid and tipped me well, asked directions to PF Changs, and sauntered off while MBA was tweaking because a crazy woman was standing on the sidewalk, talking to herself about being a member of the church and not having a tail, changing her clothes and cutting some of them to shreds with a pair of scissors. Not a typical show for us on a Monday night. That’s more of a Friday night event. So I was never able to ask who the hell he was because I had to go in and have security call the cops (so it didn’t look like we did and aggravate her into taking the scissors to us) But there was a guy taking pictures of the horses and he kind of recognized him.

Mr. Photographer: “That’s the guy from that show.”

Me: “Yeah, thanks, that helps a lot.”

Mr. Photographer: “That show about that guy who works for a store like Best Buy.”

Me: “Chuck?” I love that show.

Mr. Photographer: “Yeah, that’s it.”

Me: “That’s not Chuck.”

Mr. Photographer: “No, he’s the other guy.”

I realized he was right, but I had to narrow it down. Things like that bug the living crap out of me. So, using my trusty Moto Q Smart Phone (Which, if it truly was a smart phone would have rung me at the beginning of the ride and flat out told me who he was.) I Googled him.

Adam Baldwin.

And guess what? He was in “My Bodyguard.” Go figure.

The Year of Giving Dangerously

www.utahpets.org


The time has come, yet again, for my kin to stage our annual Beg-A-Thon. Yes, that’s right, we slither around town, groveling for money, all in the name of Dogs and Cats.

Well, if you want truth in advertising, Dogs. I don’t really care about cats. Cats are kind of self sustaining, anyway. I’ve seen cats hunt. I just can’t imagine my Pomeranian, Sammie Two Chews, bringing down a rabbit. Or a mouse, for that matter, even one in a cage, tied to a stake with a little rope around its neck, drugged with a Rufie. Although she has been known to kill snails. Of course we all know how stealthy and cunning snails are, right? Dangerous predators, snails…

Anyway, I digress…

So I don’t like to talk about The Kid much because, well, if you’ve read my blogs then you know I feel the same way about other peoples children as I do about other peoples cats. So I try not to bore you with what my kid does, mostly so I don’t have to listen to you while you go on and on and on about your kid while my eyes glaze over and I try to figure out the most convincing way I could fake a heart attack. Or a stroke. Strokes are good, I can fake half my face getting all slack and slur my speech. Hell I slur my speech most of the time anyway. Getting old, bah!

Anyway, it’s time for our annual Beg-A-Thon. We get this name from Public Television and their “Membership Drives” Except we don’t have Eric Idle of Monty Python standing in a goofy outfit looking at the camera with clenched fists shouting “SUB-SCRIBE”. We use cute pictures of our dog and The Kid to milk the cash out of you. It has worked quite well for us in the past. This is the 5th year for The Kid to collect donations for No More Homeless Pets in Utah at their annual Strut Your Mutt. She has always brought in enough cash to allow her entrance to a spot in the middle of the event called “Busters Back Yard” where they show their appreciation for your fundraising efforts by serving you Yogurt Fusion drinks, dry bagels with those little packets of cream cheese, and over ripe fruit. But they have chairs and tables with umbrellas and that’s the part I appreciate. The “Strut” is 1.25 miles around a place called Sugarhouse Park, and I spend most of it carrying my fat little ball of fluff around because she’s too lazy to walk. I’m talking about the Pomeranian now, not the Teenager.

Anyway, this year we took advantage of a program The Husband’s employers began and glommed onto a major donation for No More Homeless Pets, so that was good. But, not happy with riding the coat tails of a corporate giant, The Kid insisted on doing her own fundraising again this year.

So that brings us to this…

Dun Dun Dun Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa


If you are interested in donating to a worthy cause, please follow the link to The Kid’s Fundraising page. We take credit cards. And if not, that’s cool. Enjoy the pictures of the cute little dog and The Kid, and understand that if she doesn’t meet her goal she will make my life miserable for several weeks.


Nichole’s SYM Fundraising Page


And remember, I have an DSL internet connection, keyboard, and lots & lots of free time.

And, yes, despite all the eye rolling I do the money goes to help out cats, too.

Cats, bleh!

The Tipping Blog

(WARNING: There is a lot of math in this blog so if you have a short attention span or are easily distracted by shiny stuff, you might want to pass on this one.)

Today’s subject has been rolling around us at South Gate for several weeks now, and since * B * hasn’t piped up on the subject, although I have given him a WEEK, (They don’t call me Slave Driver for nuthin’, ya’ know…) I figured I would jump into the pool. Actually, I have Pools on my mind because it’s getting to be about time that I set mine up, but the weather here has been so bad I’m afraid I’d be ice skating on it, not swimming.

Anyway, I digress.

Tipping is a very touchy and emotional subject with Carriage Drivers and anyone else who has ever worked in any kind of service industry. The custom differs throughout United States as well as the world. And here is the thing, I invite you to join in the conversation, make this a dialogue. PLEASE leave a comment concerning this blog. You know, as long as it’s about The Tipping Blog, not a comment about how I’m short and fugly looking. Crap, I already know that.

When I lived in Kansas City I went to work as a waitress at a sports bar that was 25 miles away from my house. I could have worked at a local diner that was 3 miles away. Why did I choose to go the extra distance? Because, having eaten at the diner, which was in a very rural area, I notice that the farmers tipped the girls a dollar. Didn’t matter what their bill was, $5.00 or $25.00, they got a dollar. That was the local custom.


A DOLLAR is NOT a good tip.






Now, a dollar on a $5 tab is good. Rule of thumb, the 15% rule that is, would make that a .75-cent tip. However tip on $25 is $3.75, not a dollar. So, bad tip. When I waitressed in KC we were paid $2.17 and hour. We were charged 10% income tax on the total amount of product (food) we sold. So whether you made 19% in tips that day or 7%, you paid 10%. Plus the income tax you were changed on the whopping $2.17 and hour.

Friday night I went to Dees with my fellow Breakfasteers. My bill was $9.20. I gave Leah 12.00 and said, “Keep the change.” That gave her a $2.80 tip. (Even though you probably knew that, I’m doing all the computations for you because this is a blog about tipping and many, many people in the world are mathematically-challenged.) The tip she would have gotten from a person who pulls out their phone and uses the calculator would have been $1.38. So my tip was about 30%.

Here’s the deal with me. Being that I have worked in the service industry for a while, I tend to tip a person based on the quality of the service I receive, not the price of the service. Leah always makes sure my coffee is fresh and hasn’t been sitting on the warmer for 3 hours. She refills my cup at just the right time. She remembers that I like the half and half creamers, not that foofy flavored crap. She makes sure I don’t get mushrooms on my Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich, or guacamole on my Quesidilla, and she bring us extra napkins, because, well, we’re slobs.

In other words, she takes good care of me, and, her care of me is not based on the fact that I ordered the $6.00 meal tonight so my service will be so-so but when I order a $10.00 meal I’m treated like a Goddess.

So, that brings us to tipping your local carriage driver. My job, such as it is, involves me driving customers around town in a horse-drawn vehicle. Most of the time I sell the ride. I get paid a commission on the ride. So my base pay fluctuates dependant on how many ride I sell. Sell no ride, make no money.


Not really...



Now, as previously stated, my job, the thing I am hired to do, is to drive the customer around in the carriage. What happens during the ride is up to the customer. Do you want a romantic ride? I can shut up. I have blankets on my carriage, so you can keep warm. I have my iPod hooked up to speakers, so I can play romantic music for you.


Tasty,yes, but a good tip? No.


In the winter I keep a foot warmer ready, just for you, dear customer, so your feet stay toasty warm for the 30-45 minutes you go round the town with me. And I have pretty flowers, and red Christmas light aglow on my carriage, so you look like Royalty while we gad about town. Except for the blankets, everything else is at my expense. I bought the speakers, foot warmers, charcoal for the food warmers, lights, flowers, batteries to run the lights, speakers and charge the iPod (I keep a 12-volt lawnmower battery under my seat. I can charge my iPod and my Phone while I roll around town. I charged Ro’s phone for her one time at Christmas. Yes, I am a techno-Geek.) And I cannot forget the Inverter I bought to run the lights. I cannot forget it because I have bought 4 of them now because I’m such an idiot I keep frying them out. Grrrrrrrrrrr! I also can give you 4 different historic tours; depending on which one you want. And, unlike some of the drivers, I have actually researched my information (and can site my source, so it’s all authentic, not stuff I make up on the spot.


You're getting warmer.


(Note: The following is a Private Rant which will probably make no sense what so ever to most of you straights: Ottinger Hall is NOT A FIRE STATION! It was a built as a Social Hall. Isn’t the name hint enough? And if you still don’t believe me get off your fat a** and read the freakin historic marker! Like I did. Jeeze, crack a book once in a while, why don’t cha?)

Okay, every body has the blankets. I’m the only one with all the rest of that stuff. So if that’s the kind of stuff you’re looking for, ask for me, Carlos. (Plug, plug, shameless plug)

So, you could tip me the RoT 15%. That means on the $40.00 ride you tip me $6.00, and if all I did for you was $6.00 worth of service, then yes, I deserve that.

But, did you ask for a historic tour? Did I answer all of your questions without a grunt and a shrug? Did I stop at the perfect spot for you to take a picture, sing happy birthday or propose to the woman you want to (currently) spend the rest of your life with? Did you enjoy the ride? Or was it just eh? If you, as Ro likes to tell people, just loved your driver (and oh God, please not literally) the tip them like you did.

In other words, did I refill your coffee at just the right time?

Yeah, Okay, I'd take THAT.


And I am leaving those folks who don’t tip at all to *B*, because I know he’s just foaming at the mouth to discuss them.

Note to bridegrooms: Just because it’s your wedding day is no excuse not to carry any cash, and I’m sure the Doorman, Valet and Bellhop would all agree. Get a clue.
Now, just so you don’t think that I sympathize with all waitresses because I have been one (just recently, as a matter of fact, but it didn’t take this time.) We have been known to complain about and or ban one from waiting on us due to poor service. There was a little Troll of a girl at Dees who got into a shouting match with her sister in front of our table one night, and we complained.

I am the Mother of a 14-year old girl. I can see that shit at home all I want, for free.

She is banned from the Carriage Driver’s table for life, kind of like Pete Rose. Too bad for her too, because we tip quite well. And if you get involved in one of the Poker games some of the drivers have been know to have in the corner booth you might walk away with a nice chunk of change.

So what are your thoughts on tipping? Do we need a primer? A Tipping Manifesto, so to speak? Drop me a line and we can discuss.

*Mangiare al fresco con carrozza a cavalli

I don’t blog about carriage driving to writer a primer for those of you thinking about taking the plunge. In fact, if you’re considering a career as a carriage drive, don’t. If you live here in Salt Lake that would mean most likely I would be your trainer, and I’d just tire of you quickly and run you off. Instead I suggest that you volunteer at your local animal shelter. The pay is about the same and you’ll go home smelling much better.

Today I’m going to discuss food. This makes sense to me because I’ve worked in the food service industry on and off for a while now, and eating has become one of those things that’s important. So is sleep, but I didn’t getting much of that this weekend. I warned The Husband; Go away and find something to do off site or be prepared to suffer.

Fine dining while holding a one-ton animal on a string is kind of an art. When there was a mall across the street from us at South Gate we would have another driver hold the horse while you ran in and got something from the food court. Occasionally the Taco Cart People would park by the mall doors and their little boy would cross the street and take orders. He would deliver and we all tipped him. At 12 he was doing a brisk business. For a while now there has been nothing across the street but a very large hole. Mall to come in 2011, but that doesn’t do much good for us right now, so our options have been limited to the following:


Don’t eat: Not the best diet plan, and for me on a day like last Friday where I went out at 1pm for a wedding and didn’t return to the barn until midnight or so. Not an option, especially if it’s cold. I need calories to burn to stay warm, and as much as I’d like them to come directly from my lurve handles, it never seems to work out that way. Bah!

Carl’s Jr: It is not unusual for a driver to take their carriage through the drive thru. I just don’t like anything Carl’s Jr. has. Now, if there was an Arby’s or Sonic within three blocks I would be all over that. The next closest fast food restaurants with drive ups are Wendys and Micky D’s, but they’re both about 6 blocks south and going more than 4 blocks for crappy food is my limit.

The most amusing part of using the drive thru is watching 6 or 7 employees cram themselves out that little window trying to pet the horse. Of course the looks on the faces of people in cars is pretty precious too.

J.B.’s: Right at the corner of West Temple and South Temple, it’s like Denny’s, but without the drunks dancing on the tables. The service is s l o w and by the time you get your food and run the ½ block back to South Gate it’s cold. $7.00 for a (cold) Hot Ham and Swiss? No thanks, I’m no gourmet but I don’t dumpster dive for a meal, either.

Dumpster Diving: I suppose that’s an option. Sometimes we see what another driver has brought and make little trades, like you did in the cafeteria in school. It’s kind of the same thing.

Applebee’s Curbside To Go; They have one down at the Gateway, and the carriage fits quite nicely in the spot. A fabulous idea, and one I use a lot, but not when I’m driving carriage. Mostly you should use 2 hands to steer, and trying to slice up a steak, with plastic utensils while driving is a little rough, not that I’ve ever tried it.

Home Lunch; That’s the option I use most of the time, since, clearly, I’m pretty much out of options. During the winter refrigeration is not a problem. However, keeping your food from freezing is. Thursday night it turned quite chilly, and the Rice Krispy Treat I had was a little tough to knaw. Although in the winter we use our foot heaters, which run on charcoal. We have often times discussed bringing hot dogs or marshmallows, but no one has done so. Yet.

Delivery; Okay, so I’ve already blogged about “How to order a pizza” and have it delivered to South Gate, but I haven’t told you about our “Special Deliveries.”

During the Christmas Carriage Season, which begins the day after Thanksgiving and ends around New Year, we sit on the box (drivers seat) from 6pm until around 10, many times we are so busy that we never get a chance to climb down and eat, or stretch, or use the john. Fortunately, we have friends. Sometimes a driver who’s not working will hunt you down and give you a hot meal. Cheeseburgers from the dollar menu, burritos, something easy to eat. Does it taste good? Let me tell you, at that point, when you are near frozen, bored out of your mind from making the same circle for hours, tired and hungry, it’s the most delicious meal you have ever eaten. On occasion Gary and Raine will make Cowboy Stew (I don’t know if they use real cowboys or not and I’m never going to ask) Or Scooter brings a huge pot of chili, and once Lori and Glenn made Shepherds Pie, which was the best thing I have ever had. They hand it to you as you roll by. It’s delivered in a cup, with a spoon, and sometimes crackers or bread, often so hot you have to let it cool for a few minutes. And all of it tastes like a little bit of heaven.

Bill will come out once in a while and give me and ~A~ a pee break, but that’s another story.

So, as you can see, * Dining outside with a carriage and horse is quite a challenge. These days we just eat before we go out and then have “Breakfast” at 1am at the Dee’s at 2100 south and Redwood Road. It’s warm, dry, the food is hot, brown and there’s lots of it.

And if we want we can dance on the tables.