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.

All The Pretty Horses

Note: I started writing this blog entry a while ago and then, for whatever reason, stopped. Today I was net surfing and ran across the blog of Dan Piraro, the person who writes the comic "Bizarro". His depiction of big fat tourists climbing into a NYC carriage being pulled by a surly looking carriage horse and the diatribe that followed once again pissed me off because of the inability of animal activists to see any side of any issue but their own slanted one. They spew rhetoric which is untrue and lump the industry into one gigantic specter of horse beating, food withholding, money grubbing, Snidley Whiplashes who sit on top of the carriage box in our black top hat and Dickinsonian Cape, twirling the ends of our mustaches.

Oh, yeah, we also go, "Mwahahhhhhhh," and dream of tying damsels to railroad track for some odd reason.

There are blogs and websites out there whose sole purpose is to shut down the carriage driving industry. Apparently we are all bad, nasty, cruel folk who are ignorant about horses, can't negotiate through traffic, beat our animals and make them work every day of their lives until they drop dead right there on the street. Then, I guess, we give them one final vicious kick, just for funzies, and walk away leaving a trail of money in our wake because, apparently, we also fart cash.



Now, I know I will probably live to regret the above paragraph, because someone will copy the text, careful to omit certain words, and paste it into a message board somewhere, totally out of context, and decree; "Look, this one even admits it!"

Okey dokey, then. So here's the deal; Horses are large herbivores that have been domesticated for thousands of years. They have their own agenda, which really has nothing to do with ours, but this is the kicker: They're willing to do what we ask of them (work). In exchange, we're willing to do what they ask of us (food/shelter). It's a good trade, and in this economy I see humans asking for the same thing with an increasing amount of regularity.

Now, if you want to argue that because of advances in transportation, we no longer need horses to pull people around in carriages, that's true. But taking a page from the current economic situation, if we do that then we have all these unemployed carriage horses.

A RARA (Radical Animal Rights Activist) will reason that the now unemployed horses can then be "Put out to pasture", to live the remainder of their lives in some magical happy horse valley surrounded by green grass, clear streams and, apparently, rainbows. In this nirvana they will never require veterinary or farrier care, and the Wood Sprites will stop by to groom them.

How wonderful! I bet it's located right next to the lush and fertile land that abused and neglected children, refugees from war torn nations, and Michael Vick's pit bulls live!

Oh, wait, I know where M'Vicks dogs live. That would be Kanab, UT. The land there is neither lush nor fertile, although it is awesome red rock country. And the dogs live on a sanctuary that is constantly asking for donations.

The reality is, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Someone has to put up the money for the property, fence it in, make sure there are enough sources of fresh water for the tenants, and then open wide the gates for the crush of horses being "retired." T. Boone Picken's wife, Madeleine, offered to do this when, a few months back, the BLM was considering euthanizing a large number of the mustangs they are the stewards of because the herds were overpopulated and the land they were on could not support all of them. Let me translate that for you. The "wild" horses the Petards think live idyllic and bliss-filled lives were starving to death so their management team was going to have them killed.

Wow, sounds like heaven to me. Where do I sign up?

(To date, Mrs. Pickins has not done anything since her initial offer. Talk, as they say, is cheap. Land, however, is not.)

The real "awful truth" that Anti-Equestrienne-Eco-Terrorists don't want you to hear is this:

Our horses are better taken care of than a lot of people. In exchange for taking humans on a little ride around town, they are fed, housed, groomed, doctored, have their hooves attended to and loved.

Yes, I said that. Loved. Because I love Cletus, and I love Tony just as much as you love your pet. And trust me, if Cletus wasn't willing to do his job, all 150 pounds of me could not possibly force all 1800 pounds of him into it. That. Just. Doesn't. Work.

In conclusion, because unlike PETA and ALF and the rest of the Ban Carriage Horses Now! dweebs, I don't ask for money, throw paint on people, or exploit women as a way of drawing attention to my "cause". I'll do what I've always done when I run across someone who is misinformed and insists on spreading the PETA agenda. And that is this;

Every day I add a new name to list of people who can kiss my ass.

I Got a Whole Lotta Nothin'...

I've got nothing…Sorry, but my mother has been visiting for the last week; the only day I worked was this past Friday and you know how that went, and it's rained Every.Single.Day. for almost three weeks, which just makes me want to build an Ark. However, since Ark building is not my forte, lucky for me, I have a canoe. Three people and two dogs will fit nicely in the canoe. However, piloting a canoe has not been so good for me. The last time I used the canoe was on the Little Bear River up by Preston, Idaho, when I was with ~A~ and Wease. That trip made the movie "Deliverance" look like a church picnic. It's also the reason why my left ring finger is messed up. That means I can no longer play guitar, not that I was ever any good at it anyway.


The canoe trip before the one where the Little Bear River kicked my ass was one up the Jordan River. We were still in a bit of a drought then, so Wease, The Kid and I spent a lot of our time carrying the canoe over the big rocks in the middle of the river. That was one loooong ass afternoon.

And while that trip was interesting (we saw a fox, a martin, tons of water fowl, a dead dog which totally grossed out The Kid, and about ten million orange golf balls) I seriously doubt we'd have that problem if we went out on it today. Plus, a boy fell into the river last week and they still have not recovered his body, so… I'm good right here on the couch.

We did go for a hike on Sunday to Donut Falls. It's in Big Cottonwood Canyon, and the last time we did that hike was in 2003. For some reason neither Mr. Slave Driver nor I remembered that, while most of that is is pretty easy, the last 200 yards is a rocky, hazardous, slippery bitch. And since my 79 year old mother was with us, we did not reach the falls.

Between the rain, the swollen falls, and the way too hazardous rocks, we bagged it just short of our goal.

That's okay, we live to attempt it another day, when it's dry, and not so watery. But here are a few pictures. And the reason why I live in Utah.

Stranger Danger!

Being that I work in an uncontrolled environment in the presence of the general population and my maximum getaway speed is about 12 miles per hour, not only do I see a lot of weird and nasty stuff, at times, through no fault of my own, I'm involved in it.

For example, on Thursday MBA and I worked our specialty from 10am until 2pm. We spent four hours driving teams from a youth group participating in an "Amazing Race" styled activity around between the General Conference Center and the Family History Library. It was easy and boring. The highlight of my afternoon was when my mother and her friend ate their lunch outside the family history library where they had been doing research. I returned to West Gate with a wagonload of youth and coerced them into waving and shouting, "Hi Mom!" as we passed.

I know, we're off the hook, "Reefer Madness" quality, uncontrolled gangsta style miscreants.

The day was progressing in typical boring and lackadaisical fashion when I was approached by a family. No sweat there, MBA and I had been fielding questions all morning, mostly about our availability. We handed out a lot of cards and advised people to come back after 5. This family also inquired about a ride and I handed them a business card and politely brushed them off. MBA and I were taken. Our time was reserved for the youth group.

Behind the family there stood a solitary man. After they wandered off he approached the wagonette, rested his elbows on the sides, and looked at me. "Did you want a business card?" I asked.

He was silent for a moment and then he said, "I want to ***********."

Now, I'm not going to repeat what he said because, while he used no swear words or even any of the late, great George Carlin's "Seven words you can't say on television," what he said was insulting and inappropriate. It also pissed me off immensely, which you will see in a moment.

Now, mind you, MBA is sitting on the driver's seat of her wagonette about 20 feet behind me and cannot hear what Mr. Creepy just said. All she can see is some random guy carrying on a conversation with me.

I paused for a moment, not really believing what I had heard him utter. Then, after it registered, and before he could continue with his wish list, I said, "Get lost."

Mr. Creep looked at me and said, "Are you with them?" as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Temple Square, headquarters of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints, AKA Mormons.

"No," I responded, getting louder, and then I added, "piss off!" By now MBA was watching with interest, still unable to fathom why I was being so rude.

"But I want to know how I get to one of those buildings with the spire on top," he said.

Not knowing exactly what state of mind this jerk was in, or his ultimate intentions, I scooted over to be within grabbing distance of my carriage whip, (Which, by the way, I keep on the vehicle for the sole purpose of using on people, not horses) and I responded to his statement with "Go ask them!" and indicated the information booth located directly inside of West Gates.

Then, just to clarify, because he hadn’t moved I added, "Leave!" My voice once again going up in decibels; I talk for a living, I know how to project.

He finally took the hint, and started moving in MBA's direction. I sat up a little straighter and prepared to grab the whip and jump off the carriage, because if he was going to pull that sh*t on MBA he would be on the receiving end of a royal ass kicking from me. He course corrected and sauntered towards West Gate, but not before he threw in over his shoulder, "You don't have to be such a b*tch about it."

And of course that goaded me into adding a very loud and nasty "F*ck you!!!"

By now MBA had saucers for eyeballs, and her mouth was doing one of those "Oooooh, you're gonna get it!!!" things. So, being that I didn't feel like shouting the entire conversation to her I indicated I would call her cell phone and I repeated the exchange verbatim.

Later she said, "I know you are very direct, but I couldn't figure out why you were going 'off' on this guy. But now that you've explained it to me, I understand. And I don't blame you. And I'm glad it was you and not me, because I have no idea what I would have done."

And my kid wonders why I don't allow her to go downtown and free range around the city.

Now, this is not the first time I have had to handle an unorthodox exchange with a local weirdo. Many times I have had to run off a person we have dubbed "Drunken Horse Whisperer." And then there's the guy with the hoodie and sunglasses that follows us when we walk through the back of the Gallavan center we call "Uni-Bomber." A couple of months ago Marky-Mark got into it with a panhandler and was punched in the face for his trouble. And don't forget that it was MBA and I working with the night the lady was standing outside South Gate talking to herself and cutting the clothes she was wearing off with scissors. So this is not exactly a new occurrence. But to date this is the first one that has made such a personal and sexual suggestion.

Because the animal rights activists that drive by and shout "Go f*ck yourself!" don't count.

When Honesty Is The Best Policy

There is a rumor going around the valley that at one time the sky held a big burning ball. I don't believe it. I think it's an urban legend. So far we have had rain every stinking day for the last two weeks. And not just a soft little gentle rain. It's the torrential street flooding, plant damaging, when it hits you it #%*&!!! HURTS kind of rain.

Tuesday I worked and the trainee I had the night before called off "sick". Now, I'm the first person to tell a new recruit that this job is not for everyone. It's the kind of job you either love right away, or not. Really, people, if you don't like the job that's okay. But let's be honest; don't call in pansy ass "sick", call in quit. Be firm.

We have had people training with us, standing at South Gate, and ask to use the john. They go to the john and never return, opting to hoof it all the way back to the barn and go home. And you know, if in the middle of your second hour you decide that this isn't the job for you, I'd be so much happier if you would say, "This is not the glamorous and exciting career I anticipated. I think I'll call it a day." Because then I won't have to waste my time going over policy, procedure, and the ride prices. Instead the trainee disappears into the Bermuda Triangle of restrooms, never to be heard from again. After about 30 minutes of "john time" we figure they've bagged it, but still. Just tell me you quit. What do you think I'm going to do, take away your birthday?

Of course we're going to mock you, but since you'll be gone, what do you care? We're going to mock you even if you stick around. That's the way we roll.

I feel the same about the potential customers. We stand there and ask as they pass by, "Would you like to go for a carriage ride tonight?" Time and time again they struggle to come up with a plausible excuse as to why they can't possibly go on a carriage ride.

"We're going to dinner."

"We're going to a movie."

"I'm allergic to horses."

"We left the children home alone and the house is on fire."

Oh, wait, no, that's Ladybugs. Ignore that last one.

But one of the very few responses we actually get is, "No." Really people, it's a question which only requires a yes or no answer. And we're okay with you simply saying, "No." Besides, as soon as you say "no" I'm going to forget about you and move on to the next fresh meat potential customer anyway.

Unless, of course, you're dressed in a manner that requires conversation related to

1) Your eyesight and/or color blindness

2) Your lack of ability to differentiate between strips, polka dots, neon colors, fringe/feathers and their relationship with one another in an ensemble

3) The fact that the purse your boyfriend is carrying for you doesn't match his shoes

Or

4) The distinct possibility you've just graduated "Clown College" and are currently job hunting.

Some people, as they pass, don't respond at all. They suddenly find that there is mysterious invisible writing on the wall the surrounds Temple Square and become engrossed in "reading" it. At first they are looking ahead of them and when we speak you can almost hear the tendons in their neck snap as they woosh! Quicker than you can say "Linda Blair," swivel their neck and inspect the wall. Their pace quickens, arms swinging to help the momentum, and once they've run the gauntlet everything returns to normal.


Something must be written on the wall, we just can't figure out what...



So, to borrow a line from the Regan era, "Just say no!" I mean, that is, if you don't want to take a ride. If you DO want to take a ride don't say no. That would just be silly.

Passion Piece

This is the 1500-2000 word piece I submitted for my sister-in-laws e book. I mentioned last week or so that she requested I write about my "Passion", and since horses have always been my passion that's what I wrote about.

Pretty stinking clever of me, huh?

Anyway, it's an essay (snooze) so it's not chocked full of shits and giggles, sorry. Go back and read about Cleatus urinating on AK-47's Bentley for that. In the mean time, slog on, citizens.

*****

The Object of My Addiction

I have, for as long as I can recall, loved horses. Like many young girls I craved the freedom they represented, the bonding between horse and rider, and their all around natural grace and beauty. With zeal I daydreamed about being able to leap upon the back of a noble steed, flying like the wind in whatever direction we chose. Of course, reality is so much different than fantasy.

We lived in the suburbs, and no matter how much I cajoled and pleaded, my parents could not reconcile themselves to keeping a horse in our tiny back yard. So I settled for the next available thing; absorbing the horse through books by Marguerite Henry and Walter Farley. In my mind I was marooned with The Black Stallion. I lived on Chincoteague Island with the hardy little ponies. In Victorian England I felt the cruel lash of a whip while pulling a Hansom Cab over cobblestone streets as Black Jack, the carriage horse. I collected Breyer models, and Sam Savitt posters. I adorned my room with Arabs, Morgans, and even that ugly old grey milk cart model that wore a straw hat. I never walked anywhere, I trotted, or if in a hurry, I galloped, making snorting noises and pawing at the ground with my sneaker covered hooves. I attached a jump rope to the handlebars of my bike and taught myself, not always successfully, to ride using "reins". Each waking breath was devoted to thinking of, reading of, and dreaming of horses.

As I got older and became a popular sitter for the neighborhood children, at fifty cents an hour, I saved up my earnings and enrolled in riding lessons through the local park district. I was in heaven as I shuttled to and from the stable in the district's van every Thursday evening. Learning to ride was empowering; the feeling of all that muscle under you, controlled by your commands, a delicate dance of balance and forward impulsion. The knowledge that such an enormous animal is responding to cues given by you builds courage, confidence and self esteem. It made me realize that as I controlled the animal I could also control my life.
At 13 I attended a company picnic with my family and found, to my delight, pony rides. By then I was too old and equitationally advanced to do something so infantile, but the man who ran the business offered me a job working for him. At the princely sum of $1.00 an hour, I jumped at the opportunity.

My goal was never to be at the pinnacle of the horsemanship world. I only knew that I wanted to be involved with them. The details never mattered; boarding, training, riding, driving, as long as I had contact and was able to inhale their intoxicating warm scent, combined with the smell of sweat and leather. The exultation I felt while watching their powerful muscles ripple under sleek fur groomed to perfection. I enjoyed learning the difference in their vocalizations: the "I'm hungry" whinny so different from the "It's scary" snorty inhale, so far removed from the "Where is everybody?" call.

Although it was a rewarding job because of my proximity to the ponies, it became clear that ponies are not like horses, at least the ones in this little string. They were sneaky, conniving little buggers who would just as soon stomp on your foot as look at you. I quit that job, not because of the rotten little Shetlands, but because the owner reneged on his $1 an hour and changed it to $5 a day.
Obsessed or not, I knew the value of my time.

Eventually, life overrode my horse habit, the constant "Oh grow up. Having horses is a little girl's dream," grinding into my psyche. I settled into being a passive observer, going on the occasional trail ride, or watching the Thoroughbreds race at the track.

Eventually I married a man who was a closet cowboy, born in the wrong time and geographic location, who shared my love for horses. We took riding lessons together, ironically offered through the park district, and often discussed how we would both like to own a horse someday.

It was during this time in my life that I had an epiphany; my husband and I were in the car, driving past a field in Wisconsin. I could see across the light brown wheat to the edge of the plowed land. There were riders on horseback, trotting together in a group, kicking up dust. A small tribe out for an evening ride. The sun was setting; the rays filtering through the atmosphere giving everything it touched an ethereal quality. Filmmakers and photographers call this "the golden hour", and I knew that, where those people where, riding their horses through that field, in the company of one another, with the companionship of their horses; I knew that was where I wanted to be. That was where I had always wanted to be, but somehow I had allowed myself to be sidetracked. My envy was palatable. I had become a victim of the dream smashers, the "Be practical" shouters. I had become a hostage of the reason-pirates; the connivers who conspire to steal your heart's desire and replace it with a 9-5 job, expecting that in the frenzy of daily living you'll never notice the difference.

With double income and no kids, my husband and I settled into our jobs and a house of our own. One June evening after a particularly enjoyable lesson, we looked at each other and one of us said, "I think 'someday' has come."

We shopped around, and eventually purchased an Appaloosa, L.P. Prairie Dreamer, and began our new life as horse owners. Once again I became absorbed into the culture of horses. The riding, grooming, equipment and vocabulary were my drug of choice, an addiction I threw my entire soul into. I had finally come home, and reveled in the feeling of satisfaction, in knowing that after my daily grind at the 9 to 5'er, I could once again drive out to the stable and get my horse fix.

A year after the purchase, we had a daughter. Now the stable became my escape, my "me" time. After work my husband would return home and care for our child and I would race to the barn, allowing myself the luxury of relaxing with my equine obsessed friends. Not long after that my husband was offered a job transfer to Missouri. Although not born in Illinois, I always considered myself a native, and the move to Missouri would take me far from friends and family. I agreed to go, on one condition: I wanted horse property. Not content with keeping my best non-human friend at a stable, I wanted to be able to look out my kitchen window and watch him grazing contently.

Of course after we moved, horse mathematics came into play; three people and one horse equals two people who are horseless, so we purchased a large pony that could be ridden by adults as well as the daughter who I knew would be genetically horse-obsessed. And of course if you own a mare, you are required to breed her. Then when another pony was offered for free we had to take her in too…

It was then I realized that besides merely loving horses, I was passionate about them. I started reading about horses again, this time not novels but non-fiction. I wanted to absorb everything I could about them; learn how horses thought, how they moved, how breed form followed function. I immersed myself in my Appaloosa's pedigree, trying to figure out how his genetics factored into his development as a saddle horse. As she grew, our daughter got into 4-H, and I learned even more, absorbing all the Hippology workbooks and information they presented to the children at the meetings.

Eventually our time on the farm in Missouri came to a close and we moved even further west, landing in Utah. We chose a home in the suburbs, victims of the huge difference in real estate prices, and soured on the work involved in maintaining a hobby farm. Only able to afford board for one horse, we found homes for the others and brought Dreamer along. And so I still had him, my first horse, that animal I had craved to know for so long.

After less than a year in Salt Lake I was hired as a carriage driver. The job involved maneuvering the big draft horses through the streets downtown, giving romantic rides and historic tours. Once again I was a student, learning the art of driving, the harness tack, and the finesse necessary to negotiate in traffic; understanding what the horses see as a danger, and what they ignore. I enjoyed teaching passersby, some of whom have never encountered a real horse in their lives, what this magnificent animal with such a noble past is capable of doing. It is a job I still hold today, and I always tell people that it is the best, the most fun, intriguing and rewarding job I have ever had, something which few people can honestly say about their professions.

Several years ago I finally found a way to balance my passion for horses with another love. Having always been a voracious reader, I became a writer, blogging about my carriage driving life, along with creating fictional characters and scenes. I've found through the years my horse experience has transferred over into my writing, and that’s my genre — writing about characters that live and work with horses on a daily basis. I hope that I, too, as those wonderful novelists before me, may someday fan that spark in a person who loves horses as much as I have. Encourage them to take that passion and turn it into something they can do for a living, whether it be as a breeder, trainer, writer, or a person who gives pony rides.

Combine that obsession which burns within you, and turn it into something you can incorporate into the rest of your life.

The Yin To My Yang

I have to work tonight and tomorrow night and then my mother is coming to visit…but I'm doing a specialty with MBA on Friday while my mom is in town. Why? She visits twice a year or so, up from Tucson, and while she stays at my house, most of her vertical time is spent downtown at the library. I'm beginning to think that I'm really just a free place to squat while she researches… And since the specialty staging is at West Gate, which is across the street from the Genealogy Library, she will be able to watch me "work", if you can call it that. Her diligent research has already enabled us to join the Daughter's of the American Revolution, so I don’t know what she's trying to prove next. Maybe to see if we're related to the Romanoff's; get us a piece of the Russian crown.

A note about MBA: She has a double first name and a common last name and when you put them altogether it makes for one long hand cramping name to write, or type. So years ago she started abbreviating it to "MBA" on the schedule. She often goes to lunch with Ro and I, and we frequently refer to her as "MBA" instead of using her first name. Due to privacy issues I either use a nickname, change names, or omit last names of people I write about. So, when you see something like "MBA" as a name, just roll with it.

I had a productive weekend. I managed to get a newbie to quit, and that’s a good thing, because he was just not cut out for the carriage driving life. Because of his bumbling inadequacies, another driver and I spent almost two hours waiting around for him, and we didn't leave the barn until 2:15 Saturday morning. That makes for a reallllllllly long night, people. Especially, by the way, when you have to pee, and you're hungry. Plus, last week he dunked the #2 radio, which was just replaced and is the one I always use, into a bucket of water, thus ruining it. Newbies are on a 30 day probationary period. 2 strikes in 5 days = not good. Not coming in Saturday means a no call/no show, so three strikes and you're out.

Sometimes, although a person is "passed off" and is eligible to drive, in reality they are never really cut out for this job. They just don't realize it until someone, say, moi, comes along and allows them to see the error of their vocational choice. I did not rip this person a new one ( I have been known to make people cry ) I simply advised him about all the protocol and procedure he woofed in an evening. I was not surprised when the owner called me at home the following evening, and asked what I said to him. She then advised me that he did not show up for work Saturday afternoon, and thanked me for unloading the dead weight.

*Sigh* A cowboy's work is never done.

So the specialty on Friday is a thing with a youth group, and MBA and I have to stand at West Gate for two and a half hours and give children rides. Not all children, just these children; the children from the youth group. And being that I enjoy the company of other people's children so much, I will be easy to recognize. I'll be the woman with the iPod firmly plugged into one ear, and the glazed expression in her eyes. By the end I'll probably be twitching, too, or banging my head against the side of the wagonette.

MBA, on the other hand, will be as bubbly and effervescent as usual. So she will be the yin to my yang. See? It all evens out in the end.


Slave Driver pushing a stroller full of her favorite kind of baby...

Things To Do In Bicknell When You're Dead

You know it's going to be one of those days when you notice that your first blog visitor in the morning is from Holy See (Vatican City State) and they found you by searching for "Crackhorse."

O-Kay…

I was going to visit Dreamer, pay board and check on Stan, but the sky darkened, the thunder boomed, and we were deluged by monsoons (I live in the desert, and unlike Arizona, we don't have a "monsoon season", but unlike when I lived in Missouri, at least here a thunderstorm is just a thunderstorm, not a potential Tornado Storm) so I bagged it opting for a Thursday visit. Instead, I decided to do some research about the town of Bicknell, Utah, which I've chosen as a possible setting for a new story I'm working on.

In April of 2006, prior to Jumping-Percheron's Stacey leaving for the Air Force, several members of our carriage driver tribe went on a camping trip to Bicknell. We stayed at a youth camp, not yet opened for the season, owned by some friends of Wease. It's located on the edge of Capitol Reef National Park; a rugged and beautiful area of Utah.

Every year the local theater (there is only one in all of Wayne County) sponsors the Bicknell International Film Festival, and part of the activities involve "The Fastest Parade in the World." The road between Torrey, where the parade begins, and Bicknell, where it ends, is about seven miles long and pretty much all highway. The participants drive 55 miles per hour, so you'd better make sure that your "Floats" have all their decorations wired down tight, and any beauty queens riding on them fasten their tiaras to their skulls with an industrial size staple gun. I would have liked to attend this year, purely for research purposes (okay, it also sounds like a riot, and I'm all about fun stuff) but looking at my calendar I will most likely be back in the Chicagoland area to attend my 30th high school reunion. But I needed to find out when the BIFF is, so I was researching.

My research brought back many fond memories from that trip. The drinking,


the barrel bucking,


the drinking, the trail ride,


the drinking, Stacey's midnight visit to the emergency room in Richmond for kidney stones, the drinking, and of course Kampfire Karaoke, which Stacey and Michelle missed because of the emergency room trip. Michelle, sister to Belle's Personal Assistant, was elected to drive the 75 miles to Richfield, Utah, because she was the only sober person in the camp. See? That's what you get for being Mormon; you are, by default, the Designated Driver.

Upon being advised by medical personnel that Stacey was, under no circumstances, to return to our secluded campsite (because if her fever spiked her next trail ride would be in a Lifeflight to Provo), Michelle and Stacey returned to Salt Lake, arriving home sometime around 2:30 am. This saddened us greatly, that is when we sobered up enough to realize that they would not be returning. It also left us with a rather huge dilemma, best explained with one of those annoying math "story" exercises:

Michelle owns a big Ford SUV and transports herself, Stacey, Oli, and ~A~, along with all of their crap from Salt Lake City to Bicknell.

+ Wease owns a Ford pickup truck, and transports herself, Slave Driver, dogs Belle and Rosie, all their crap along with two saddles, all the food/cooking supplies, and of course the Karaoke equipment from Salt Lake City, to Bicknell.

+ Bill owns a Honda (car) and transports himself, all his crap and a bunch of his gold panning crap, from Salt Lake City to Bicknell.

-If Michelle and Stacey return to Salt Lake City in an empty SUV, leaving Oli, ~A~, and all of their collective crap back at camp; how long will it take for the balance of the group to pack up all of the residual belongings and equipment into the two remaining vehicles?

=Answer: About 2.5 hours, as long as at least 3 out of 5 members of the group are really good at the game "Tetris."

Well, kids, that's enough math for today. I'm going to see Dreamer, and take pictures of Stan.

(Edited to add: I spoke to Ro this morning and am sad to report that the intrepid Max went to greener pastures today. He was loved on by Ro before he went, and his journey was gentle.)

For Those About To Walk, We Salute You

(Editorial note: I've learned a very important lesson about checking the expiration date on Wal-Mart Home-style Potato Salad. The lesson is this: Do it. Food poisoning is very unpleasant, and will knock you on your ass for a couple of days. That's where I've been, food poisoning land. It's not a nice place to visit and I definitely do NOT want to live there… Anyway…)
Sammie Two Chews, ready for some action!


First I would like to thank those of you that contributed to the Strut Your Mutt fund, both online and off. You know who you are. We know who you are. Best of all, Karma knows who you are.

Next, a field report: Saturday dawned a bright and beautiful morning with a light breeze. Mr. Slave Driver and I awoke with a spring in our step and a song in our heart…The Kid, however was much more difficult to wake up because, although this event is her gig, the day before she had attended "The Big Ass Show" at Usana Amphitheater. This meant that from right after school at 2:50 when I picked her up until 12:30 am when she returned home, she was either talking on the phone, texting on the phone, surfing the pit or ogling guys. In other words, she had been very busy and was just plumb wore out. But…not my problem. I had specifically not worked on Friday evening because I did not want to exhibit signs of "Dragging Ass Syndrome". So we gleefully hauled her crabby butt out of bed, picked up the other teenage member of our team, along with her canine companion, Papi, and headed to Sugarhouse Park for the strut.

Two teenage girls with unbounded enthusiasm, ready for the big day...

Kenna and Papi; their first Strut!

We arrived early enough to find relatively close parking on a side street, due largely to my continuous effort while still at home of rousing the troops via repeatedly stressing "Hurry up," "Let's go!" and "Come on!". We equipped our "Army of Dog" with a cooler full of water and a baby stroller I picked up for $4 at my neighbor's garage sale. Why? You ask, would someone walking their dog around a park need a stroller? Because, I say, my dog has short little legs and like me is a bit over weight so usually a block into the strut she quits on us and we have to carry the fat little fluff ball which makes my arms really tired. Also, they have a lot of stuff that the sponsors give away and we get a bit overloaded with swag. So this year I planned ahead and we rolled most of the way.

It's all good.

The info I've gotten back from No More Homeless Pets in Utah states that this year's strut was the most lucrative fundraiser yet, so that's great. And even thought we did not meet our goal of $500 we did a fairly respectable $415 in donations, so Yay! for us.

While we were there Mr. Slave Driver did a little dog shopping and found a completely weird breed that he now wants, but they are so obscure I seriously doubt we will ever get one which is good because it's as big as a pony but with much more hair. MUCH more. And I know from experience of having a large dog, (Kuvasok, another obscure breed big enough to saddle/ride) that large breeds mean large poops and I do not relish the thought of renting a backhoe to clean up the yard, TYVM.



This dog is a "Leonberger". No, I've never heard of it either. But now my husband wants one. He couldn't fall in love with a Pit Bull or a black mutt, both of which are overrunning the shelters?
Anyway, here are my pictures from the 2009 Strut Your Mutt. Mr. Slave Driver, obviously a Luddite, uses an old fashioned film camera and his photos will not be ready until Saturday.


I must go now and catch up on the stuff I've neglected for the past 24 hours. Posting this blog for you, dear reader, was the first thing on my list. :)


You know, I didn't ask. I assumed they lost a bet...



Another large breed my husband wants. This is a Bernese Mountain Dog. Because we live in the mountains. And we speak Swiss (No we don't)


One of my favorites, a Newfoundland. Yes, they do come in something other than black.

I took this picture because of the man in the middle of the crowd. The two fisted Pom holder. You have to hold your Poms up or else they get crushed. There were a lot of dogs there.

These are Hairless Chinese Cresteds, they also come in haired. This is a rescue group, and I asked "Why does this breed need a rescue? They are very expensive, and uncommon." And the girl answered "People get them as an accessorie and do not realize the care needed." Apparently, she advised, if your dog is hairless it needs to be bathed an lot or it gets acne. And you have to use sunscreen on it. So besides being fugly looking, it gets pizza-body and sunburn. Poor little designer dog...

I've talked about the "Big Fix" mobile unit that travels Utah spaying and neutering dogs and cats at a discount. Well. here it is. And what I most loved about seeing the unit is their license plate-

The Candy Dish Exposé

I've been busy once again. You see, during the winter months I occasionally ski, work my ass off during Christmas carriage ride season, lounge around at Sundance for the month of January, and have time to write. In the summer I have the sun to worship, a pool that requires maintenance, and I try and get a lot of reading in. Also this month I've been working on a piece that is supposed to go into an e-book my sister-in-law is publishing.

EEK!

Writing this blog is low stress, although I'm occasionally at a loss as to what I should present to you. Did you want to hear about the bloodthirsty croquet game the guys played on Memorial Day? Doubtful. The number of doors slammed in the Kids face when she went begging for Strut Your Mutt donations? Too many to list. At the very least I try and keep it entertaining, but the awful truth is thus: my life is boring, and there just isn't all that much to write home about.

Combine that with the fact that I never have my blogs critiqued before I post them. Although I write them in "MS Word", I frequently will miss typos or formatting issues until after it's posted and then go back and fix the mistakes. And of course there is the crappy sentence structure, the nonsensical paragraphs, unnecessary words, and my tendency to write in run-ons. Or fragments. Being that the 1500-2000 word essay needed for the afore mentioned e-book will be out of my control after I hit that "send" button, I've had to be a bit more cautious during the construction of the piece.

My sister-in-law runs a business that has to do with online networking. She has asked me to write a chapter about my passion. Of course by now you know that my passion is horses, and writing. But writing this blog is a lot like making your mom a ceramic candy dish. You be as creative as you can, glaze and fire that puppy, then wrap it in tissue and present it to her with a huge amount of pride. Now, imagine your mom lives in the Guggenheim and your ceramic candy dish, complete with your childish hand print smack dab in the middle and sloppy glaze sags down the side, will be displayed for the world to see.

It raises the stakes a bit, doesn't it?

So that's what I've been doing. Revising a short essay, based on critiques from my group, that will eventually be published in an e-book. For me writing something that others will read is a lot like standing in front of strangers naked. You folks, who visit here regularly, are not "strangers", and I never receive a critique from you on the regular blah blah posts. Okay, except for the guy from England who found me by happenstance while looking for a software development company with the name "Slave Driver." He stopped in long enough to advise me that my personality was "Contrived" and recommended that I should "Relax".

Clearly he doesn't know me, and has never witnessed my behavior after a glass or six of "Franzia Crisp White". Which, by the way, is yummy, and luckily comes in a 5 liter box, complete with a spout, which is just hella convenient.

So when you expose yourself to others, naked, you allow them the luxury of anonymous commentary. "You're chocked-full-of cellulite here; you have a nasty scar there, and gosh but you could sure stand to lose fifteen or twenty pound, eh?" So I am on a quest to revise and rewrite a piece that will soon expose me, and I'm doing everything I can to fix the flaws.

So, please bear with me. I'll post the "Passion Piece" when I'm finally ready to hit send. Until then, enjoy a photo of "The Ugliest Clogs Known To Man," courtesy of my neighborhood Wal-Mart.

Hey, Jimmy, Are You Experienced?

Some times it's good to see things from the driver's perspective.



First off I'd like to say how delighted I am that my friend and former carriage driver, Jumping Percheron's Stacey, has arrived in Korea safe and sound, and unlike her first deployment in the United Arab Emirates, she will be blogging about her adventures this time. During her last deployment her accommodations were a little more primitive and she had very limited internet access, although there was a Pizza Hut on base. She also was not immersed in the culture of blogging then, so she had no fan base to blog to, although I did get an occasional email detailing her dangerous and highly top secret mission, ( Slave Driver winks at Stacey…) and it was nice that I could get occasional updates on her activities. And when she returns home she's supposed to visit us here in Utah. So, YAY!

You can read all about her Korean adventures at 95 Days in Korea

The past week was a long one for me, with late nights and early mornings, and by Monday I was dragging ass, so that's the reason for no post. Sorry, sometimes I do require sleep.

Monday and Tuesday night I had the same trainee. We try not to do that because 1) The seasoned drivers get sick to death of having trainees all the time. And 2) From each seasoned driver the trainee learns different techniques and information. Also we forget to tell them stuff sometimes, or a specific incident, like an appointment being late and how to handle it, doesn't arise. So we switch them around so they may fully benefit from the experience of drivers who have been around for a while. Plus if you end up with the same trainee on consecutive evenings, especially if they have the personality of a wet dishrag, you don't end up committing Hari Kari with a sharpened pencil right there on the sidewalk out of sheer mind numbing boredom.

I was lucky; my trainee's knuckles did not drag on the ground, he spoke in complete sentences, and was entertaining.

For me, having a trainee is twofold; I like driving carriage, so being a passenger up there on the box can be a drag, and 2) we don't get paid extra to train, and part of training is teaching someone to sell. So, even if your trainee, fresh out of the box all new and shiny, is the best damn carriage driver that ever walked drove the earth, if they can't sell a ride they become as useless as tits on a bull. But my trainee was a good salesman, and although we didn't sell too many rides (Monday and Tuesdays are just not big Carriage Ride nights) it was okay.

When I get a trainee, I always ask them what their horse experience is. This usually happens while walking from the barn to the corral. If they say none, I go "Yippee!", because that means 1) I don't have to wipe all that Cowboy Shit off of them and 2) I don't have to re-train their bad habits. This is known as the "We've always ridden our dead horses this way" effect. We have our employees do things in a specific manner, for safety reasons, and I'll take a non-horse person with a lick of common sense over a "Stock Hand" any day. It means less work and arguments for me, so yeah…

Some trainees lie, or inflate their skill level. And in fact I never knew it was possible for a halter to be put on a horse upside down until I spent 10 minutes watching a trainee with "lots of horse experience" actually pull this magic trick off. Of course when she was done I immediately yanked it off and put it back on correctly, but it was interesting to watch all the same. I think this also speaks volumes about how patient and cooperative our horses are. More so than the trainers, I can guarantee that.

"Excuse me, do you know how to work that halter?"

Ro recently spent several minutes interviewing a prospective employee who enthusiastically outlined all her riding experience to Ro. When she'd finished, Ro asked her, "So, what kind of horse do you have?"

The soon-to-be-not-eligible-for-employment candidate answered, "Uh, I forget."

(Cue game show buzzer; Eeeeeeeehhhhh! "Wrong answer!" See, there is a huge difference between a person with no practical horse experience and a lying dumbass.)

When I do get a person who answers the "What horse experience do you have" with anything other than "None" my next question is this: "When was the last time you rode?"

Here is verbatim one of those conversations:

SD: "What horse experience do you have?"

Trainee: "I had a horse growing up."

(Mind you it's almost exclusively an Arab)

SD: "When was the last time you rode?"

Trainee: "Four years ago."

SD: "Did you ride English or Western?" (I'm talking saddle type here. For you non-horsey readers, although there are many different disciplines the saddle type breaks down to two basic styles: English (hunting, jumping, saddle seat, dressage, etc.) and Western (Western pleasure, reining, cutting, roping, etc.)

This is important information for me to know because we direct or "plow rein" the carriage horses, which is more English, as opposed to neck reining them, which is impossible, and an exclusively Western trait.

Trainee: "I don't understand the question."

SD: "Never mind, you've just answered it."

So that tells me the "Horse Experience" they have is zero. Why? Because having a horse as a kid growing up or having grandparents who owned a farm and worked it with a team of Percherons usually means someone other than the trainee got the animal ready to ride, boosted them into the saddle, and let them hack around in the back yard. So their "Horse Experience" is equivalent to sticking a quarter in the slot and "riding" the mechanical horse in front of K-Mart.

Those folks are a little more difficult to train, because 1) they have no respect for the animal because they've been "around" horses "all their lives" and 2) they keep wanting to tell me all about Flicka/Sham/Snowball or whatever the hell their horses name was while I'm trying to concentrate on teaching them how to groom and tack up Jerry/Tony/Cletus or whoever the hell we're driving today.

Then, of course, I had a trainee once who wanted to become a carriage driver because his wife was one, although he was afraid of horses.

As my buddy Bill said, "Isn't that like wanting a job as a lifeguard when you're a non-swimmer?"

Of course, sometimes it's a good experience to for the trainee to see things from the horses perspective.

"Walk on, Ro!"

There's a UFO in My Yard...

That's right, I said it, a UFO.

No, I'm not one of those folks who wears a metal colander to keep "Them" from reading my brainwaves, and my windows are not decorated with curtains made of tin foil...

I have an Unidentified Flowering Object in my front yard.

When the subject is horticulture, I am as sad and pathetic as they come. A complete idiot. When I buy plants I have to keep those plastic name/planting directions tags with the plant or else I can't for the life of me remember what the heck it is. That's also helps me remember what is a weed and what is a plant, so when I do a slash and burn in my flowerbed I don't kill the stuff I've paid for.

Anyway, I was weeding this morning and came across this guy:




Now, I have Columbine, which looks like this:


And the leaves on the new guy kind of resemble those of the Columbine:


New Guy


Columbine leaves


but,


I don't remember buying this plant, and there's no plastic tag around to tell me what it is. So...

If you have any idea, could you clue me in? Then I'll know if I should pull it or enjoy it.

And thanks, because you know it takes a village to raise an idiot.

Back To Square One

I went to see Dreamer yesterday. I needed to check on Stan,

Stan Last Week

The "Jabba Head" is gone

>

And Stan is still shrinking (YAY!)

and The Kid wanted to ride.

Dreamer hasn't been worked in close to a year now, for numerous reasons; Stan, I have a bad hip, laziness, whatever got in the way, it's over now. Stan has reduced in size and ugliness exponentially, so we're planning on working Dreamer again. The Kid wanted to jump him but he needs his hooves trimmed and since he's been off for so long he's a little out of shape, so…not today. He needs a little exercise, first.

Plus, The Fabulous Todd is allegedly moving his hunter / jumper Paint horse to my barn so 1) I will have someone to ride with, 2) The Kid, who absolutely adores the Fabulous Todd, will have someone to jump with, and 3) TFT can drive The Kid to and fro, if they want to hang out together, leaving me free to concentrate on all the critically important tasks I perform daily.

(Pause for maniacal laughter…)




Ahh…that was good. Anyway, after The Kid rode Dreamer we smeared Stan with more Xxterra.

Then I watched while this dog ran around with a piece of twine on his collar, and this cat tried to catch it.

I know. It was stupid, but in an amusing and free way, so, in this economy, you take free entertainment wherever you can find it, right? Right? (This is where you nod, and say, "Why yes, that's why I'm here, reading this")

But before we left we met this little guy, who is adorable.

I love the babies.

Bob Wants A Cookie!!!

New for me over here at the Slave Driver blog, a video blog of what carriage driver Kar and I did Friday night while bored out of our minds waiting for some business...



Yes, I know, it's stupid, but we're simple minded and easily amused.

Books, Stan, and the Copacabana

"That which you manifest is before you." —Enzo

From "The Art of Racing in the Rain" by Garth Stein.

I read the above book this week and highly recommend it. Forget "Marley and Me", read "The Art of Racing in the Rain", it's riveting.

Anyway, enough of Slave Driver's book review. I went to see my horse, Dreamer, on Tuesday, and smeared more Xxterra on Stan(for you Confessions of a Slave Driver Virgins, "Stan" is the name I've given to the Sarcoid tumor that is on my horse, Dreamer's, leg.) Here are the comparison pictures:

Stan, April 22



















Stan, May 5



















I was pleasantly surprised. I could see a marked reduction in Stan's size, and a lot of the chunky, ookie bumps have sloughed off. The large mass on the left (I think of it as Stan's head, and the rest is Stan's body. Kind of a Sarcoid "Jabba the Hut") has shrunken considerably, so yay!

Dreamer turned 20 this year, and is doing pretty well for an old man. He's maintained his weight and, althought not toned at all, (but who am I to judge...) he has no other health issues.

I dragged The Kid along with me because she needed a Marti Gras mask for English class. They're studying Shakespeare. It's best not to ask. I am, after all, the parent of a teenager, so my role in life is to drive, pay, smile, and nod. She shed him out while I ran over to Saddle Up! (no, I'm not overly excited about that store; that's the name, complete with "!") to buy a bag of Strategy. Eventually I'll switch him over to Purina senior feed but for now, since he is maintaining his weight, I'll leave well enough alone.

Today is our semi-annual barn employee meeting. We always have a new crop of drivers, so the meeting is to reinforce the safety rules and policies of the carriage barn. We are pretty much unsupervised out there, so the seasoned drivers end up policing the novices. And unlike our brethren on the east coast, we are fortunate not to have the Humane Society or PETA breathing down our necks every minute of the day.

Mostly, the long time employees just keep the newbies from doing stupid shit. But that's a blog for another day...

Two more things before I wrap this up:

First, I'm leaving you with an earworm, (an earworm is a song you just cannot get out of your head. Annoying, I know, but since I've had this one for 2 days I feel compelled to pass it along to you. Sorry.)

(Feel free to add your own lyrics, or, ignore the entire thing)


(Sung to the Copacabanna by Barry Manilow)

His name was Stanley, he was a sarcoid,
And though we froze him so he'd die he just wouldn’t say good-bye
But then Xxterra came to our rescue
and once applied to all that skin we knew that we were gonna win
Stan went from big to small, someday not there at all
I have science and a good vet,
Who could ask for more?

Get rid of Stanley, Stanley the sarcoid,
Tumor that lives on my Appy,
Get rid of Stanley, Stanley the sarcoid!
Get rid of Stanley and we can be happy
With Xterra! …We'll go for rides…



And second is a WTF picture I took in front of Target. Feel free to discuss. Better yet, make up a caption for it.

Don't You Just Love That New Carriage Smell?

As I'm sure you're aware, if you have plans to do something outdoors the weather will be crap, just as if you're stuck inside all day it'll be sunny and 75, even in January. It's pretty much guaranteed.

Saturday I helped Ro with a wedding. We got to use the brand new carriage.

The owners bought it two weeks ago at an auction in Denver. I've just got to say what a pleasure it was to drive a piece of equipment that's hasn't been beat to shit yet.

The wedding job was to shuttle guests from the parking lot of a ward house to the home of the bride where the ceremony and reception took place. I had a thing in the morning so I arrived after Ro did. It was pouring.

I waited for her to return from a shuttle and when she did I noted that she was wearing her duster which was soaked. I don't wear a duster. I'm not a cowboy, and they don't keep you very dry (dusters, not cowboys. I've never tried to use a cowboy to keep me dry but if I ever do I'll report the results)when I wear a duster I look like a matrix/goth prom kid; it's just too long on me. Plus, they're heavy when wet, so I opted to wear my rain gear which, while unbecoming, gets the job done.












Ro also wore her leather gloves which got drenched too, so when she finally removed them they stained her hands orange, looking very festive with her purple nails.

The wedding was in a residential neighborhood,


and the most precious thing about driving a carriage through there is the fabulous "WTF" expressions of the folks turning a corner and coming face to face with us. We even got a few "WTF is that!" looks from cats. Actually it was more like "Dude, that's the biggest f*cking dog I've ever seen!!!" Either way, it was damn funny. We also picked up a tick; that's a phrase I use when someone (usually a child but it's also been applied to drunks) decides to follow us around. One of our ticks was a 3yo girl. Her sister, about 4, had stalked us earlier, wearing only a shirt and nothing else. Nothing. Else.

MBA, curious as to what we do on specialties, stopped by with a Latte for Ro and a coffee for me, which was very nice, but of course it made us have to pee so, being that we were bereft of a bathroom we took turns using the horse trailer. Charlie Horse didn't seem to mind, as he kept trying to pee in front of the Brides house whenever we stopped to drop off/pick up.

Finally, the rain stopped and the sun came out, at least until it got dark.















Of course, by then the damage had already been done. All of the wedding guests had serious mud problems including one of the bridesmaids. On the return ride many of them got mud all over the interior of the new carriage so as we dead headed back, Ro drove and I wiped up mud. It's a glamorous life...











And we did finally manage to dry out, a little. I changed into my tux jacket so I wouldn't look so "homeless guy."











We did, however, run into residents who were happy either way. It was, after all, weather befitting them.

Home On The Range

For any of you who are interested in learning about or adopting one of the BLM's wild mustangs that roam Utah, our own barn fix it/clean it/drive it guy, Cliff, is featured in the Sunday Money section of todays Salt Lake Tribune.

Go here to read the article and see pictures of Cliff naked.

I'm just kidding. I wouldn't do that to you. Striking you blind would make it difficult for you to ever come back and read the Slave Driver blog again.

What's Your Specialty?

"Specialty" is a term we use to cover any number of rides, and the only thing they have in common is that they're not routine.

For example, the Gardner Village "Ride With A Witch" gig last October was a "Specialty". So is the Quinceanera that Cliff is doing out in Wendover next month. Ro is doing a specialty on Saturday, and after I attend my League of Utah Writers workshop in Springville I'll be rushing over to the east side of town to help her out with that, although by the time I arrive she will have done most of the work, which involves grooming/tacking/loading/trailering the horse and carriage over there.



Anyway, Specialty's; we have another one this Saturday; it's the celebration of 1894 at the city/county building downtown. The building is an old one, requiring a seismic retrofit several years ago, and our job (well, not me, I'll be shuttling wedding guests from a parking lot to a reception with Ro) is to take Vis-à-vis and deliver five past and current mayors of Salt Lake to the celebration.

We have two Mayors, a city mayor, Ralph Becker, who I drove in the Gay Pride Parade two years ago, and a county Mayor, Peter Carroon, who I have never driven anywhere.
To prepare for this event the five carriages need to be spruced up, which is not a big deal (except for #3 which is a POS, but that's another story) so Ro worked on them yesterday. But also included in the celebration is the display of some of the antique vehicles that the barn owners collect. And that's where it gets fun, at least for me, because I love the antiques.

(Side note: I watch "Antique Road Show, and Mr. Slave Driver states that he can tell the appraisal price of an item based on how ugly I think it is. If I like it, it's worthless; if I think it is the most hideous f*cking thing I've ever laid eyes on, it's priceless. This is especially true if it's an old clock, or French, or an old French clock. He believes I should hire myself out as a "Value Barometer" when someone goes treasure hunting at an estate sale or flea market. I'm more accurate than a guide book.)

So while Ro, Kar and I spent Friday at the barn helping make ready the display carriages I took some photos of them for your viewing pleasure. I hope you enjoy looking at them as much as I enjoyed vacuuming out the ½ inch thick layer of dust and mouse crap.

The hell with swine flu, I've probably contracted the Hanta virus.

Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry..."



This is a Landau; the top opens down the middle and it becomes a convertable.

And the interior of the Landau

The Stagecoach is very big and tall. Carriage Driver Kar is 5'9". Here she is standing next to the rear wheel.

This is a Clarence Growler Brougham


This is called a Dray



One of my favorites, the Victorian

And the one I do NOT want to go for a ride in...the hearse.

Postless

Sorry, blog stalkers, no post for today, well, except for this apology post. I know, I'm like clockwork over here, that is if your clock is a sundial: Mondays and Thursdays, with the occasional bonus post. But I'm in kind of a funk and I don't like to post "Rant" blogs although I know I am guilty of that on occasion.

So go listen to some music or skip on over to another blog or talk amongst yourselves. I have to work tonight and maybe something will happen that's post worthy. In the mean time, have a great day, and be excellent to each other.

Construction Season

It's been a year round thing here in Salt Lake, the rebuilding of downtown has been an ongoing project for a while now.





They demolished the mall across from South Gate and are in the process of building an even bigger and better one. Or so they tell us. You can take a look at what they have planned here, and judge for yourself.

In the mean time we, along with the thousands of motorists and pedestrians who converge on the downtown area daily, are saddled with the inconvenience, noise and disruption that all the construction entails.

For example, this is the view from where we stage. For almost three years now we've had no streetlights on "our" side of South Temple. This is rather inconvenient for us; it makes filling out a credit card slip at night downright challenging. It also has reduced the amount of foot traffic we used to get from people wandering out of the mall.



Now, to further amp up the chaotic atmosphere, the church has decided to make improvements to the pavement in front of the south entrance to Temple Square. I've been told that this project is scheduled to run until August.



So, may I suggest that the next time you decide to visit you wear a hard hat. I expect Marky-Mark will figure out a way to fashion one for Rex.



I worked Saturday. Ro gave me a wedding at 1:30, the pickup was at West Gate and I was to drop them off at the Cathedral of the Madeline.

Tony looked fabulous, as usual, and the Tulips are in bloom. I left my "good" camera at home because the battery needed charging and grabbed my next best one which is a combo camera/digital recorder.

I would have liked to have gotten more pictures of the tulips but I ran out of memory.

Typical.

I work Thursday night so I guess I'll get more shots then.

The bride and her father were late, but that's not unusual. They arrive at 1:38 and she said "We're supposed to be there by 2:00."

From West Gates, taking North Temple to avoid the construction, the distance is 6 ½ blocks. Let's see, at an average of five minutes per block…

Sure, my horse and carriage doubles as a rocket car…






I replied "Well, I'll do the best I can, but it's not like they'll start without you."

We did make it, just in time, Not only that but because it wasn't raining I left the top down. And we lucked out— it didn't begin raining until after I dropped the Bride and her father off and was halfway to South Gate. Then it rained on and off all afternoon and evening. Spring in Utah…yay.

I don't mind going out for early appointments— if you're lucky the extra time on the street gives you a slight advantage over the other drivers. In my case, between the wedding and the time the other drivers arrived at SG, I hooked one ride, so my advantage wasn't that huge overall, but I was still barn high because of RPRT.

The biggest disadvantage of being out early is you are almost always alone, which means the support system we rely on, the other drivers, is absent.

What this translates to is this: No potty break for you!

But Kar, also known as "BB, Darwin's Satanic Imp", stopped by before she went to the barn and spotted me for a pee, which was good because I'd gone out drinking Friday night with former slave drivers Wease, ~A~, Bill, and had consumed copious amounts of coffee all morning.

Anyway, what that brings me to is this:

Our little tribe wishing ~A~ a fond farewell at Murphy's Social Club, as she starts her new adventures living la vida loca in Las Vegas.




Obviously, there is a reason why we encourage the tourists to take photos of the horses, not the drivers...

"Firefly", Stan and the New Girl

I'm watching all the episodes of "Firefly". I love Nathan Fillion and one of the writers at the retreat recommended it for the stories and dialogue, so when I saw the entire 14 episodes at Sam's Club for $18.88, I purchased it because I'm too lazy to hunt it down at Blockbuster. Plus I gave Adam Baldwin a carriage ride a while back and was shamed because I couldn't remember his name or the work he's done, except "My Bodyguard" which was made a jillion years ago, and probably directed by Cecil B. DeMille. And of course "Independence Day" and "Chuck".

My favorite line so far;

"If you take sexual advantage of her you will burn in a special level of hell reserved for child molesters…and people who talk in the theater."

It has an ensemble cast, which my WIP has. So the interaction between the characters is important. Plus, as the writer told me, it has horses in it.

Horses, yay!

Anyway, my friend ~A~ and I went to see Dreamer and Stan yesterday. There was also a new girl at the barn, and she's a beauty. ~A~ and her hit it off right away.
And like I said yesterday, I love the babies.

















~A~ brushed Dreamer while I took pictures of Stan and checked his progress.















It appeared to me that he looks smaller and less oozy/angry. The swelling caused by the freezing treatment we had initially began has reduced a bit, so now we are dealing with the crusty yucky skin.

So the Xxterra appears to be doing some good. Next we moved on to the Formulin. Apparently it stings, because after I tried to apply it to the back of Dreamer's leg, he proceeded to smoosh me between his body and the fence, causing me to spill Formulin on my hands and arms. Not only does it sting, it also smells. Real bad. So I can understand why he's not too happy about having it applied.

So from now on, it's Xxterra all the way. Because I can't take another Formulin bath again.

I Promised, I Delivered...

I promised more photos on Monday. Now, I know you've heard from me that I'm not particularly fond of children, yet I have one of my own. Well, I don't like other people's children, but I do like mine.

No offence, just not enamored. Last night at my kid's Honors Band concert I was stuck sitting next to a little boy who alternately coughed on me, farted, and played his Nintendo DS for two hours.

Two.Hours.

Needless to say I was in Heaven.

However, I love babies, as long as they are not the human kind. The only thing I miss about our farm in Missouri is the animal babies. This being spring, Doree and I were surrounded by calves as we made our way to the lodge






















I thought this little man was cute, being he had that piece of grass hanging out of his mouth. His demeanor was rather tough, sauntering in front of us without a care, acting like he owned the road. And he does, for now.



Until next fall, when he's relocated to my freezer.




These were the only horses I saw, but I also didn't take a trail ride. I was, after all, supposed to be focusing on writing, not riding.

There's No Place Like Home

The Utah Romance Writer's retreat I went on this weekend was lovely. Hidden Springs Resort is a beautiful venue; a rustic lodge surrounded by acres of cow pasture and rolling hills.





The company was interesting. Getting together with a bunch of writers was fun, and the conversations lively and entertaining.



Several of the women are going to a workshop featuring Bob Mayer and Margie Lawson. I told them to tell Bob that Slave Driver said "Hi," I met him last year at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference and I occasionally comment on his blog, not so much recently because he changed the format and it's all about his upcoming Who Dares Wins book and I'd rather talk about his fiction, either alone or co-written with Jennifer Crusie. But life is all about flux and you have to roll with the changes.

I've lived here in Utah for five years now, and have never driven out that particular direction. It was almost 150 miles one way, and Doree and & took my Jeep Wrangler which, while not the most quiet or luxurious ride, was a good choice once we hit the dirt road to get to the lodge.
I had the soft top on the Jeep, and apologized to Doree for the noisiness. She stated that her Minivan wasn't much better.

I replied, "Well, at least your windows don't flap."

She conceded I had her there.

So here for your viewing pleasure are a couple of the photos I took. Besides my digital I also used The Husbands camera which is old fashioned film (Ugh!) and I won't have those processed until later.

This is from the rest area between Starvation Lake and Strawberry reservoir:
















Weird as it seems this is one of my favorite photos.
I call it "Man Plans, God Laughs"

















This is Strawberry Resevoir


















This cabin is just down the road from the resort




















The pond in front of the lodge





Visiting Dreamer is on today's agenda; I need to give him another Xxterra treatment and check Stan's progress.


Much catching up to do. I will post more later.

It's a Retreat, Not a Surrender

I belong to several writers organizations (the "Published Authors" clique still eludes me, but to be honest I haven't tried very hard; still working on weaseling my way into that one) and this weekend is an event I have been looking forward to since I joined them. The Heart of the West chapter of the Romance Writers of America is sponsoring a retreat. It's being held here, and my friend Doree and I are simply giddy about it. Three days of nothing but hanging out, relaxing, drinking wine, writing, reading, goofing off…

Oh, wait…that's what I do on a daily basis.

BUT,this weekend I will be doing it with other writers. So, when I finish a masterful piece of literary treasure I can assault request that someone read what I wrote and get feedback. All this without having to follow someone around begging for a critique. In other words, instant gratification. Hidden Springs Ranch looks beautiful, and I'm excited to be in the company of so many talented wordsmiths.

For my part, I'm bringing Fully Loaded Baked Potato Soup, some Sausage Jambalaya and my camera; the weather should clear up, and best of all…

They have horses.


In the mean time, here for your reading pleasure is a piece of "Flash Fiction" I wrote for a contest. I was limited to 600 words, so for me it was a Herculean task, being that I tend to run on and on and on…

****************************

Don, the Chicken Man

Out of my element when we moved from the suburbs of Chicago to rural Missouri, I was fortunate to make a new friend just down the road. Don was our neighbor; tall and wiry in his late 60s, he told me that he'd been born in Minnesota, raised in "Missoura", and was one of sixteen or seventeen kids— he couldn't recall the exact amount. Despite Don's lack of mathematical prowess we became buddies.

My husband traveled a lot, one week in Kansas City, the next in Denver. I was a stay-at-home mom with a toddler in unfamiliar territory and without family near to occupy the endless hours alone on our hobby farm. Don stopped by occasionally in the evenings to check on me, the ignorant city slicker, all alone on the wild prairie. Plus he discovered our fridge is always full of beer. Dropping by to visit for a spell is a neighborly thing to do.

One June evening Don asked if "the little one", his name for my daughter, and I would like to join him at the local bar for supper.

"Wednesdays are forty-nine cent taco night," he explained. Don's a savvy bargain hunter.

Tired of only having a short person with limited vocabulary for company, I jumped at his invitation. Down our gravel road to the bar we drove, and once we were settled at a table, ninety-eight cents worth of tacos in front of me, Don talked about his week.

"I cook out on the grill when the weather's fine," he said in his slow drawl. "I usually make chicken and sausages on Sundays. I wrap the sausages in foil with onions and peppers. They're pretty good, if I do say so myself."

I nodded, unable to speak because my mouth was full. "The little one" was finger painting the table with her taco.

"I cooked out this weekend. I made chicken and sausages and had a couple a beers."

Knowing Don is mathematically challenged, I figured "a couple a" meant "a twelve pack". I was unable to comment, busily deflecting a steady barrage of shredded cheese flung in my direction.

Don continued, "I came home for lunch on Monday, and I looked in the fridge for the leftover chicken. I knew I didn't finish it all, and I was hungry."

I kept nodding. Apparently he really wanted to discuss his culinary skills.

"I looked all over my fridge, and it wasn't in there. So— you know what I did?"

I shook my head no, trying to listen to Don while scraping demolished taco into my napkin. The "little one's" restlessness was making our table look like a Jihad at the Taco Bell.

"I went out into the yard, and you know what— I left that chicken on the grill all night long."

"Was the grill still on?" I asked, a sudden suspicion clenching at my gut.

"Nope. So— you know what I did?"

I calculated the equation put before me: Chicken left on a grill from a sunny 80 degree Sunday, overnight, into a sunny 80 degree Monday at noon, and shuddered.

"I took a bite out of one of them pieces— and you know what? It tasted funny."

Words exploded out of me, words like salmonella, listeria, diarrhea.

Don calmly ate his taco while I railed. Finally he said, "You know what I did then?"

"Threw it out?" I replied, wondering what other options there could possibly be, trying to hide my urge to gag.

"Nope. I took a bite out of another piece, just to make sure."

Driving Off into the Sunset with a Trailer Full of Kid

I resumed working Friday. I guess three months, give or take, was a long enough hiatus. Friday was also the day that Kid, Belgian draft horse and former employee of Carriage for Hire was to be picked up by Cory and hauled up to Wease's house to commence his retirement.

I got to the barn a little early because I needed to do some work on my carriage. While I was loafing for the last few months, Cliff, who is in charge of doing "stuff" around the property (cleaning the pens, repairing the carriages, you know, "heavy lifting" kind of stuff) put colored tube lights on my carriage and also installed a back rest.

Now, several observations; I don't own my carriage. It's not technically "mine". I do, however, maintain it. I keep it clean, lubricated, and repaint the parts that get worn or chipped. If something needs repair, I make sure Cliff fixes it, and when I drive it I don't rub the wheels up on the curbs, or run into things with the hubs or steps.

Because of this "my" carriage is one of the best looking and best functioning (the fifth wheel turns easily, the brakes and lights all work) however, few people want to drive it because it lacked a backrest. Not having a backrest never bothered me. Why? Because in order to use the backrest I have to scoot my butt far enough back on the seat to lean against it. When I do that my feet don't sit flat on the floor, which is rather uncomfortable. So, in other words, I'm too short for a backrest to make a difference. Yet other drivers have complained to me that they don't like my carriage because it lacks one.

Well, not any more. Cliff has inadvertently made my carriage more appealing to the other drivers. Now I have to work more often so it doesn't get abused by unruly slobs who are unable to appreciate my carriage for the finely tuned piece of equipment that it is.

Anyway, here are before and after photos of my carriage.
















Also, Cliff installed blue rope lights which don't exactly go with the red roses I decorate with, but blue is a hellava lot better than green or yellow.

















Back to Kid: Ro pulled him out of his pen and brushed him down so he'd be all ready to go when Wease's friend arrived to haul him up north to Richmond.

















Then Kid and Harley shared a meal together.














Ro and I said goodbye with hugs and kisses.




















And Ro put him ouside to enjoy the sunshine.

Pretty soon Kid's limo arrived.

















So Ro went and got him, walked him through the barn so the drivers working got a chance to say goodbye, and loaded him into his trailer to a new life.




And we were sad, but we were also happy because we know that Wease appreciates Kid and will take good care of him.




Later that night while I was working at South Gate I got picture texts:


Kid is finally home.

Let The Begging Begin!

Yes folks, it's that time of year again. Time for our annual Strut Your Mutt fundraiser to benefit No More Homeless Pets in Utah.

Or what we lovingly like to call the Beg-A-Thon.


If you have no interest, feel free to jump ship over to another site. I know, I hate getting hit up for crap for other peoples kids. Marching Band Oranges/Grapefruit, Soccer Gift wrap/Christmas Ornaments, Girl Scout Cookies… Oh, wait, no we order those like we're hogs. Thin mints…mmmmmmm!

The Kid has been involved with this wonderful charity since we moved here in 2004, and she in no way benefits directly from the donations, other than the great feeling of accomplishment from helping save the lives of adoptable dogs and cats. So she won't be using your money to get a new softball uniform, travel to France, or go away to band camp.

Anyway, No More Homeless Pets in Utah is an excellent organization, and if you've ever watched "Dog Town" on Discovery Channel, know the story of Michael Vicks Pit bulls, seen some of the rescue efforts post-Katrina, or if you have visited Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, then you know some of the places and work that NMHPIU helps support. They are not limited to local involvement only.

Utahans might be familiar with the SuperPet Adoptions they host in conjunction with PetSmart, or the mobile "Big Fix" surgical unit that travels the state offering reduced spay and neutering to families to help curb the overpopulation of homeless dogs and cats. TNR is their program to trap/spay/neuter and release feral cats back into their colonies so they can live out the remainder of their rough lives where they are comfortable yet without increasing the numbers. I support NMHPIU because they are not a "breed" based rescue group, and this is the biggest fundraiser of the year.

Pets by the numbers: Prior to the inception of NMHPIU in 2000 there were over 46,000 animals in state shelters euthanized yearly. The numbers are down by 30% now, but we'd like to drop the percentage down even further, while raising adoptions over the 26% mark.

Due to the economy the number of animals being sent to shelters is on the rise while donations are down. So many pets are being surrendered because their families have lost their home, need to relocate for a new job, or just cannot justify the expense of a pet when feeding their family is a financial burden. I understand the economy is nasty right now, but any donation is welcome. NMHPIU is a registered 501 ( C) 3 charity so your contribution of $5 or more is tax deductible.

So, in conclusion, that’s why we've leaning on you for money. Donating is quick, easy and secure, just click on that widget thingy up there on the right. If you wish to make a donation in the name of a departed pet we will carry an "In Memory Of" sign during the walk, just add the info to the "Comment" section of the donation page. Pictures will be posted this year after the event which is on May 30, 2009 at Sugarhouse Park.

Last year's Beg-A-Thon post explaining the origin of the "Beg-A-Thon" name is titled

"The Year of Giving Dangerously".

More information is available at www.strutyourmutt.org. The blog from last year's Strut is here. Our visit to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary is chronicled here (my first blog on Blogspot).

You'll noticed I never have any ads on my site, and this is the only time of year I ask for anything other than comments or feedback.

Have a great day and thank you for your support.

STAN! The Musical!

(On 4/22/09 this entry was edited to add:
For you newbies, "Stan" is the name I've given to the Sarcoid Tumor that has taken up residence on my horse Dreamer's leg. I gave it a name because it was either name it or give it a ZIP code.)

To fully appreciate this post you need to understand a few things:

1) I have a LOT of free time
2) I am known to make up parodies of songs because I'm weird
3) I'm weird
4) You should have already figured that out by now
5) I love music and have a propensity to remember and sing the lyrics to popular song for years yet I'll forget your name within 30 seconds of being introduced to you.


So it's no surprise that today while re-potting some Fuchsia plants I got over the weekend and expect to kill in just a few days, I was pondering the Stan problem and humming a tune.

This is what you get when I combine them:

"Stan", sung to the tune of "Ben", by Michael Jackson, theme song from the movie "Willard"

"Stan, both Buzz and I should look some more,
We've not found the cure we're searching for,
With a Vet to call my own, I don't fight you alone,
The tumor that you be, dried up and dead to me,
(Dried up and dead to me)

Okay, maybe not. How about something a little more upbeat:

"Hello Stanley", sung to the tune of "Hello Dolly" by Jerry Herman

Hello Stanley, gotta go, Stanley,
It's so nice to send you back where you belong,
You look like hell, Stanley.
I can tell, Stanley,
We keep sprayin', you keep stayin', you keep getting red
But not for long, Stanley,
Must be gone, Stanley,
Just like the skin appeared here way back when, friend…

Nope, that’s too peppy. Maybe something a little more dramatic.

Xxterra Rhapsody, sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody", By Queen

Mama, I'm killing Stan,
Put the ointment on his head,
used Xxterra, wished him dead,
Mama, Stan just can't be killed,
I took that cash and threw it all away…

Mama, ooooooooh,
Didn't mean to waste my time,
When I come to the barn again tomorrow,
I'll smear Stan, I'll smear Stan,
Cuz the money doesn't matter…

Too late, Stan's time has come,
Sends shivers down my spine,
checkbooks empty all the time,
Goodbye sarcoid tumor, you've got to go,
Gotta leave my horses leg and go away.
Mama, oooooooooh
Stanley just won't die
I wish that he had never showed up at all…

I'm just a sarcoid, nobody wants me
(He's just a sarcoid from the wart family
Spare my poor horse from this monstrosity)
Easy come, just won't go,
Tell me why Stan won't go…

Okay, maybe that's too operatic.
How about something a little more sublime:

Sarcoid Love sung to the tune of "Muskrat Love" by America

"Sarcoid tumor, named him Stan,
Grows on Dreamers leg out in stable-land,
And you're yucky, Dreamer's not lucky,
Sarcoid tumor, warty Stan,
Gonna kill you off with my own two hands ,
And you're smelly, oozing like jelly,
And we spray, and we smear and we slice you
Ginsu off pieces and dice you,
Wrap you in a layer of goo,
Oh Stan, we'll kill you, oooooooooooooh"

I can see "Stan Karaoke Night" being a popular pastime at Casa Slave Driver. I'm sure I can come up with a suitable tune. Maybe something by Nirvava…

The Freak Show

Sunday I should have been working on my manuscript, but instead I was here:


















Doing this:









Which was fabulous, and way, w a y better than being here:











With them:

Watching them do this:

This past weekend was the semi-annual General Conference for the members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, commonly known as Mormons. Either of those are just too long to type all the time so from here on out in this blog they will be referred to as LDS.

The Conference center holds 21,333 people, the theater next to it holds 904, the Tabernacle holds 8000,and the Assembly Hall holds 2000 (all of these sites, by the way, are ON Temple Square) and there are, I believe, three sessions each day. So we have about 100,000 people descend upon downtown in a time frame of 2 days in a space of 2 blocks. All with little to no parking, and exacerbated by the construction zone surrounding downtown.

Now, numbers like these are too good to pass up, so people come out and protest the LDS church. Disenfranchised ex-Mormons, people upset with the LDS church's involvement is passing prop 8 in California, liberals, conservatives, fence sitters, and members of other religions who think of the church as a cult, or believe it is an affront to their religion. You know, the whole "My God's better than your God" debate. Maybe they're jealous; LDS have pretty good numbers.

Anyway, I used to work conference weekend because 1) I was new and didn't know what it was, and 2) I wasn't paying attention to the date. Now I look it up online and mark it in my calendar so I don't ever make that mistake again.

"Why?" You ask. "Why would Slave Driver pass up a golden opportunity to work a weekend when a boatload of people will be in town, many of them not from around here? You know, tourists = easy pickings."

Well, you know it's because of guys like this:


Now, as a general rule, I don't publically go dogging on others, whether they be bloggers, contest competitors, people of different religions (that actually means everyone, because I don't subscribe to one) or other carriage drivers. I also don't "flame" people, either in chats or blog comments. Maybe that's why I'm such a fan of Hannibal Lector; he often times dispatches those guilty of uber-rudeness. I don't come up with creative ways to slay them, I just ignore the slam.

However, when they are in my face, shouting disparaging comments or waving signs either at my horse or my customers, I get a little angry. The protesters stand around and hand out bible tracts, literature against the church, and signs decreeing that Joseph Smith was a liar, and that everyone associated with them is going to Hell in a Handcart.

In the midst of this circus *WE* carriage drivers try to go about our business. Because of our proximity to the Temple, *They* assume that *We* are 1) owned by The Church, 2) are members of The Church, 3) make money for The Church and 4) and support The Church.

Now, that's just rude. I feel that it's rude to stand in front of anyone's church and dog them for their beliefs.

When they approach our drivers (usually newbies who have not been involved in this rodeo before) I shoo them away, invoking a "Dogma and rhetoric free zone" on the sidewalk around our carriages/horses/drivers/customers. I have also had them try to hand literature to my customers while driving around Temple Square.

Oh hell, no. I don't allow that any more than I would a panhandler asking people in my carriage for a handout. My carriage is my office. This is where I work; Your free speech ends at the step.

Now, you have to understand something. Members of the LDS church have been schooled by their leaders to ignore, not respond, not engage and otherwise turn the other cheek in response to this diatribe against their core beliefs.

Many of our drivers, due to statistics, are LDS. I. Am. Not. So, *I* don't have to practice pacifism. *I* get to respond. And, as a group, when the protestors get too loud, *we* sing either "I'm Henry the VIII, I Am," by Herman’s Hermits, or "This is the Song that Never Ends," by the late great Sherry Lewis and Lamb Chop. *I* talk for a living. *I* know how to project from the diaphragm .

*I* am not easily intimidated. So, since on several occasions I have almost come to blows with the A-Holes (we call it "The Freak Show") and because I don't want to end up in jail for something so inane and ridiculous as mixing it up with a fanatic, I take myself out of the equation.

Which is why I no longer work during this:




















And instead I went with them:










And did this:

And stayed out of jail.

Notes on a Standal

I know, my puns suck mightily, but it's not my fault. I have a condition, like Tourettes, or OCD, and I just can't help myself. I'll be joining a 12 step soon, I just need a leg up.

See what I mean? Anyway, I went to check on Stan today. For you first timers "Stan" is the name I've given to the sarcoid on my horse. Dreamer, that would be my horse, is getting pretty tired of the attention Stan's getting. I could tell this right off today when I got out to the barn. You see, it was supposed to be spring. The calendar says it's spring; two weeks ago we had weather in the 70s, but today? Cold, windy, overcast. In other words, crap.

The reason for the weather report? Well, it explains this:

My horse is a candy-ass pansy. I attribute this to his upbringing. He was a show horse since he was born, and was taught to stay clean. For years he minced around mud puddles and refused to walk through water. He doesn't even eat apples like other horses. He makes you hold it while he takes delicate little bites. He's a 1000 pound little girl.

So when I got there I went to get him out of his pen. He was standing in the corner, and refused to come anywhere near the gate, even though his harem girl was all over me and the carrots I brought for a bribe. I couldn't help but notice that out of the entire paddock, he's found the high ground.

Mind you, it's cold and windy, I've driven all the way out here and then forgot my &^%*&^*& checkbook, so I have to return tomorrow to pay board, and I'm supposed to meet my friend Doree for lunch so I'm trying to stay somewhat clean (not happening), and Mr. Butthead is refusing to cooperate. So I get a can, put a little Strategy in it, and finally coerce him to the gate. I can't say as I blame him; he did after all have to wade through this:
















And this should give you some perspective as to the depth of the ooze.









Slip-sliding all the way across the barn lot, I tie him to the fence, put the rubber gloves on and smear some Xxterra on Stan.

This Was Stan last week:















This was Stan today. What do you think? I don't see much change.


Dreamer is being relatively well behaved for this, but when I try to apply the fourmaline to the back half of Stan, Dreamer starts being a pig about it and shows me his butt. This is my first warning. The butt means "Go away." Next he lifts his left rear leg. He doesn't do anything with it, he just holds it there. This is warning #2. I yelled at him and he behaved but clearly he is not happy with the Stan Plan. I'm sure to him it seems that every time I visit, he gets yanked away from his friends, tied to the fence, doped up, then Stan either gets fondled, sliced, frozen or smeared.

Dreamer's mad as hell and he's not going to take it anymore.

So the next time I visit, which will be tomorrow, since I have to pay board and forgot my stupid checkbook today, I'm just gonna take him out and let him play. Give him lots of treats, which I will have to hold as he takes little nibbles, and I will brush him until it looks like there's been a blizzard, except it's hair.

I suppose worming him is not a smart idea. At least for a week or two.

PS; I'm lovin' the new camera. :)

The Road Less Traveled

This weekend I went to Wease's.
A random selection from Wease's book shelf














She is a former carriage driver who lives in Northern Utah, just this side of the Potato Curtain. That would be Idaho, to you non-Utahan's.

Here is the Ward House* across from Wease's house on Friday afternoon:

Friday, upon my arrival, we went into Logan for Indian food, which was delicious. I caught Wease up on all the recent happenings at the barn, including Kid's retirement and subsequent return by the Hippotherapy** program. Then we returned to Wease's and played Guitar Hero Rock Band, or something to that effect, and drank wine.
My friends are gamers, I am not.

Much of the day I got "The Stare" from Wease's pack-o-dogs.

This is Kahlua.

"Lassen Sie mich in Ruhe!"

She speaks with a German accent and is always trying to think up ways of getting around the rules. We, as a race of humans, are lucky that she is not taller, or has opposable thumbs. Either would be very bad. Both would be the Apocalypse.





Belle is the social butterfly, but only in the sense that the hostess at Denny's is really glad to see you. Happy you've come, glad you like the food, now pay the damn bill, tip your waitress, and go. Belle likes to administer the random lick in passing just to remind you 1) she knows you are here 2) all the toys in the house belong to her and 3) if you try to steal any when you leave she will remember your DNA and unleash the hounds of hell to hunt you down.

Rosie is my favorite because, like me, she's old.

She sleeps a lot. She's cool. She spends a lot of time watching the other two dogs and rolling her eyes.


Saturday morning we had to deliver a gift to a friend who'd just had a baby. Neither Wease nor I are big fans of babies. Given the choice I'd rather play with someone's rabid puppy. Or cuddle a wolverine kitten. So I volunteered to stay in the Jeep, motor running, as a good excuse for Wease not to have to go inside and possibly be forced to actually look at or even (shudder) hold the baby. We were both pleased to find the friend not home, and Wease left the bag on the front porch.

Her friend lives outside of Preston, Idaho, a quarter mile from the house that Napoleon Dynamite "lived" in. So here, for your viewing pleasure, is proof that it is a real house. And for those of you without a strong grip on reality, there is no Napolitano Dynamite, and this is not really his house. I'm sure that the people who live there are so happy to have random a** holes drive down their street and take pictures of their house. And if they didn't know, then they should sue their realtor: It's called disclosure, like meth labs and mold.


In the afternoon Wease had friends over and we played Rummykub. It's an addiction within our circle of friends and everyone has a set. It's kind of our secret shame. But we have fun, and of course Wease cheats. But I call her on it and everyone knows she cheats.

After we played Rummykub, we went to see "Bedtime Stories" at the cheap show in Lewiston. The theater is old but it only costs $2 which was good because not only was the sound messed up but the non-stadium seating means anyone older than a grade schooler blocks my view. I, naturally, ended up sitting behind Shaquille O'Neil's sister. So most of the film I watched the back of a woman's head. But I'm used to that.
Inside the Lewiston Cinema


I knew it was supposed to snow on Sunday but I thought it wasn't supposed to come in until later. So, I was going to beat it using my Rocket Car, and be home Sunday afternoon. By 7:15 Sunday morning, when I could no longer take staring at the cracks in the guest room's ceiling, I looked out the window.

Overcast, but nothing else.

By 8:00am, when the freshly brewed coffee finally lured me out of bed, there was a blizzard. Now, remember that ward house? Here it is Sunday morning.

Stupid snow.

But it was okay because, you see, I don't have a "real" job, so it's not like *someone* would expect me to be at my desk/station/the Tilt-a-Whirl controls; asking "How may I direct your call?"/"Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Clooney?"/ Would you like fries with that?"; dressed in a Hazmat Suit/Deep Sea Diving rig/Pasties and a g-string. So, staying an extra day is no problem.

Poor little Jeep

This gave us the opportunity to discuss Kid's retirement problem further; Wease is a horse person. She currently has two, with a young 'un on the way. She has always liked Kid, and decided that she wanted him to spend the rest of his days with her mares, going on the occasional trail ride in the mountains. She also has two carts, one of which would be perfect to hitch Kid to and be-bop around town in. So she left a message for the carriage company owner and waited for a call back to determine the outcome. During a break in the weather we scampered over to Wal-Mart where I bought dinner fixins' and the movies "Quantum of Solace" and "Bolt." We also played more Rummykub, and discussed Kid.

Monday I headed for home, braving the slippery slope that is Sardine Canyon after a snow storm. Which. Was. Not. Fun. Outside of Brigham City I got a call from Ro, barn manager extraordinaire. She'd talked to Wease earlier in the morning and wanted my input before she approached the barn owners about sending Kid to live with Wease. I gave her my stamp of approval.

Now Kid's got a new home. With Wease.

Ro kissing Kid goodbye



And we all lived happily ever after.













*A Ward House is where Mormons to church.

**For you non-horsey people, outside of the "Equine" family, (horses, donkeys, etc. this group is known as the even toed ungulates ((Perissodactyls)) because their feet have three or, as in the case of modern horses, one toe) the closest relative is the Hippopotamus. The study of horses is called Hippology. Weird, huh?

It's being written as we speak...

Yes, I know. Sorry, I've been gone, away to a land with no internet access. I'm writing it now, expect it tomorrow.

Thanks for playing.

In the meantime, feel free to discuss this photo:

News Flash

Well, okay, it's not exactly news, but those of you who read my drivel regularly will be pleased to know that on Sunday I "won" a camera on eBay and it arrived today (which must have set a world's record for eBay stuff shipped to me) and I think you will agree that the difference in the picture quality is pretty substantial. Mostly it will be evident in medium to long/wide shots. When my kid hoards her nice Olympus camera I end up using my Sony Handycam for pictures. Now, as a camcorder it's okay, but as a camera it sucks.

Here, for example, is one of my Susie Morton plates:

Sony Handycam
















Olympus FE-20
















And one of my favorite finds (2004, West Yellowstone, WY) my drunken horse wine bottle holder:
Sony Handycam























Olympus FE-20




















Sony Handycam

















Olympus FE-20









I think you'll be please. You may not go out and celebrate, but if you do, have one for me.


So to paraphrase the great Nez Perce Chief Joseph, "From where the sun now stands, I will use my cell phone's camera no more forever."


PS: And, for an actual "News Flash" Kid, who was retired to a Hippotherapy program a week or so ago, came back because he was "too tall". Now, for those of you who have never actually met Kid, to say that he is too tall is like calling me svelte.

Stan Plan B

Stan, the name I've given to the sarcoid tumor blob which has taken up residence on my horse Dreamer, has proven to be a tenacious little sucker.

Buzz, Dreamer's vet, has been giving Stan the "Liquid Nitrogen Delight" Spa Treatment for several weeks now, and the result has been a larger, redder, angrier looking tumor than the Stan with which we began this odyssey.

Obviously, Stan is being quite uncooperative. Dreamer aint too happy about the entire operation, either, but since most of the time he spends with us he's under sedation, it's not that big of a deal.

Today, after examining the post popsicle Stan, Buzz and I decided to change tactics. We're ditching the freezing and moving on to an ointment. Enter XXTERRA. It doesn't list the ingredients so it must be made of fairy dust, red dye #2, and Vaseline. At least that's what it looks like. It's high cost is due to the inactive ingredients of Diamonds, Gold, and Imported Virgin's Saliva.

So, first Buzz gloved up and peeled as much of the crusty, bloody junk off of Stan as he could get. Then he dug around in the pus for a while. (Oh, I'm sorry, were you eating? If you've been here before you should know better by now. That'll learn ya. If you haven't then I'm sorry, but that'll learn ya.) Then he poked around, probably just to get Dreamer good and pissed off, (maybe horse anger is one of the catalysts to make the Xxterra more effective) and after getting Dreamer all riled up he applied the reddish goo all over Stan.

Now we wait.

I also got a small bottle of what Buzz said was Formaldehyde but I think it's Formalin. Anyway, it's another alternative Buzz came up with, although it's labor intensive, meaning I have to go to the barn every day and apply it to his leg. I'm going to try it on the backside of Stan. The scaly skin wraps ¾ way around Dreamers leg but the stuff on the backside has never been much of an issue except for its gross and ugly appearance. So we'll be running a little clinical trial of our own to see if the Formalin will do it any good.



In the event that neither of these treatments make an improvement in reducing Stan to an acceptable size, I might take one of my kids Breyer horses, make a "Stan" out of red Play-Doh, and start sticking pins in it. Kind of a Voodoo Stan.

Then, we'll move on to Holy Water.

Better One, or…Two

I've previously mentioned my obsession with horses and how it carries over into my interior decorating. For one thing it makes me a very easy person to purchase gifts for; horse, realistic looking, preferably minus people, and not overly expensive. The last part being because my genetic makeup is similar to that of Bull+china shop=me+delicate expensive chotchkies.

None of my family will ever be graced with, well, grace. We're more the solid, sturdy, Neolithic, help-a-friend move their piano kind of people than the stylish, flowing, elfin, ballroom dance kind of people. Except my mother; she traveled to Argentina to Tango when she was 75. Maybe I'll pick up some coordination as I age, but it's highly unlikely.

On Saturday, Mr. Slave Driver gave in to my haranguing and we went to a so called "Starving Artist Sale." Here it's held about once every four months at the downtown Sheridan. We arrived and perused several hundred oil paintings, many of which were renditions of the same theme with subtle changes. I found only four that included horses. One was an image of a race horse flying down the home stretch. To me it appeared said Thoroughbred was finishing the race on its knees, but that's what I get for having actually witnessed the "Sport of Kings", Arlington Park being a favorite haunt of mine. I share boarded a 17 hand, off the track, race horse once. His name was Tillingbourn. He knew how to do two things well; make wide left turns, and run like hell when the arena phone rang. Eventually he was donated to the Chicago Police Department. I don't know how his new career panned out, but it had to be an improvement from his track record.

Anyhoo, we pawed through hundreds of oil paintings and finally I found one that was acceptable: horses running through water with mountains in the background. Not too big, not too small, like Goldilocks and her uninhibited trashing of the Three Bear's house, it was just right.

So now here is the dilemma, and you get to weigh in; where shall I hang it?

Above the fireplace?























Or, over the entertainment center?

















Like the optometrist asks, is it better one,




















or…




Two?

I know, currently it is without a frame, but Mr. Slave Driver has both the tools and the ability to make a wooden frame for it, and the one I like is Mission style, similar to my living room furniture. Giving him these tedious tasks keeps him off the streets and out of trouble. Plus he likes them, sometimes. Or else he just does it to humor me.

Why I Should Be the Sego Lily Blogger

I read the newspaper daily, and often times cut out random tidbits I want to keep for future reference. My office frequently looks like it's been the recipient of a ticker–tape parade, with all the newsprint confetti scattered about. So it was not unlike me to cut out a blurb about the Sego Lily Day Spa contest.





Usually I read the articles once and "file" them (if you call setting them down somewhere in my office "filing") and during my yearly frenzy to clean out the piles of junk I throw them away, usually not remembering what the initial reason for removing them from the paper was to begin with. I guess that's what I get for killing off all of those brain cells with fermented grapes.

But this snippet was different. This snippet was to me what the Holy Grail was to Monty Python the zealots who participated in the Crusades.

This snippet brings with it the possibility of winning a prize. Spa treatments for a year, and the luxury of blogging about them!

BINGO!

For the uninitiated, most of what I write has to do with life here in the beautiful Salt Lake Valley where I live. I blog about everything from inane information about carriage driving, volunteering for the Sundance Film festival, the mysterious tumor on my horses leg I've named "Stan", to the amount of cold weather apparel I haul around on my carriage with me to stay warm and dry during winter. Random, senseless, eclectic stuff that will never be considered great literature. Although the blog about Cletus and his urination issues seems to be a crowd pleasing favorite. Go figure.

I will never be mistaken for a "girley girl." In my life I have had one massage. It was a gift from The Husband several years ago, and I enjoyed it. Okay, the term "enjoyed" is not definitive enough. I relished that puppy like a junkie getting their fix. The ambiance, the delicious aroma of the scented candles, the warmth of the room and muted sounds of gently flowing water...I was so relaxed I left the spa with an overwhelming feeling of having just melted into a puddle. I believe they carried me out to my car in a bucket.

I ski, I lift weights, I ride my bike when the tires aren’t flat. I work in the yard, and have a job that is physically demanding. Let's face it, if you can't pull a 400 pound carriage out of the barn you're just not qualified to do what I do. Not to mention the standing is hard on your feet and your back, the weather is tough on your skin, and the boredom turns the brain to mush. So the idea of being able to leave the hectic and demanding daily grind behind me for a weekly treat of luxurious pampering is…intoxicating.

My other job, the writing gig, I find mentally taxing, and often when my family thinks I'm sleeping or otherwise in a prone and sluggish position, I am actually "thinking", running a scene in my head with my eyes closed and the iTunes cranked. So even when it appears I am "relaxing" I'm really "working", such as it is.

So, entering in a contest where the outcome allows one to relax and feel good then write about the experience is appealing. The rules are simple; to enter the contest you have to blog about why you should be selected as the Sego Lily Day Spa Blogger, and you know what?

I just did. :)




Sego Lily Day Spa Blog Contest

Psst- eventually when the finalists are chosen you, dear constant reader, get to vote for the winner. You know, just like American Idol, but without all the wardrobe changes...

Right Place, Right Time

RPRT

That's an acronym I use sometimes at work. Actually, we use a LOT of acronyms. (No, LOT is not an acronym) Here are a few:

LA Little America
GA Grand America
DRB's Dirty Rat Bastards
COB Church Office Building
JSB Joseph Smith Memorial Building
JM Sign Just Married Sign
PITA Pain In The Ass
RARA's Radical Animal Rights Activists
WG West Gate
LDPT *Lying Drunken Puppy Thief
SG South Gate

So it's no surprise that one of my favorite acronyms is RPRT. That would stand for Right Place, Right Time. That was me last week. I got called in because they were shorthanded. That means I was poaching, sort of. Poaching is when you sign up to work when there are already enough people working. See, if too many drivers are working then nobody makes any money. I wasn't poaching of my own accord. In fact they had to submit to my demands before I would agree to come in and work. So it was forced poaching. NMF (Not My Fault).

Anyway, I had two appointments that night, one at 6 pm which was the impetus for calling me in because they had three appointments and only two drivers. Then, as part of my compensation for hauling my ass all the way back downtown to work on a night when I didn't want to work because there's good stuff on TV, I was given another appointment at 8:30.

So I showed up, got Tony ready, pulled out bumpus POS (Piece Of Shit) carriage number 11 (because the wedding at 8:30 wanted a black carriage) instead of my usual white/in excellent condition (because I take care of it) #2 and went with Kar (AKA; BB, Darwin's Satanic Imp) to SG where we stood around and did nothing from 4:45-5:45 when we had to leave for our respective appointments. I arrived at Mac Gril (Macaroni Grill) took my passengers on their romantic ½ hour ride where he got down on his knees and proposed, then went back to SG.

I was the only carriage at SG and had all of about 4 minutes of standing around and was in fact trying to pull my Jimmy Jammers (one of the many nicknames we have for insulated Carhartt overalls) on when a young man approached me.

"I'm proposing to my girlfriend tonight and I want to take a carriage ride in a half an hour," he said.

I looked at my watch; 6:40. "If you want to guarantee a carriage will be here you need to pay in advance and I'll make sure someone is available for your reservation," I replied.

"Fine," he said, whipping out a credit card. We settled on a City Creek ride ($50), which is much nicer than a City Tour ($40) but not as expensive as a Memory Grove ($60) and I filled out the credit slip. He advised that they would return to SG between 7:10-7:15 for the ride.

Right behind him were two women and a man. The older of the women (Mom, it turns out) asked about our rides and she settled on a City Tour. I looked at the time; 6:44. "I can do it," I said, "but I have to be back in time to do that man's proposal." I indicated the retreating backside of Mr. Soon-to-be-engaged.

"Oh, that's all right," Mom replied, "you can cut our ride short if you need to."

So, I took Mom, daughter and Uncle Bob around downtown. By this time, Kar and Newbie Driver were at SG, each having done their single appointment. I returned in time to pick up Mr. STBE, take him and his intended on their City Creek ride, and drop them off in front of JSB because they were having dinner at The Roof (a restaurant in JSB. It's on the 10th floor). Then I returned to SG.

Kar and Newbie were still at SG, still with only 1 ride each under their belts. I piddled around, went and used the john, chatted with Kar for a while, and then left for my appointment which was almost 7 blocks away. I picked up the B&G (Bride and Groom) (who looked to be all of 12 years old) and took them to LA. I must be getting old, everybody under the age of 30 looks 12 to me these days...

B&G exited my carriage and four people who had been checking with the doorman about a cab approached me, and their leader asked, "Are you available to take us to Spencer's?" (a restaurant in the Hilton.)

"Sure," I said, my mind whirling because I figured I would be deadheading back to the barn (I was allowed to go home once my second appointment was finished.) That was part of the "deal" that was crafted to get me to work that night. My kid was home alone, not feeling well, and I have a certain standard of gross and net which are within my acceptable parameters. In other words, I knew I was considered a poacher, albeit against my will, and I expect to make a certain amount of money when I go out, and if I don't achieve my goal I don't feel that it has been worth my time. I'd rather stay home and watch TV.

So for a nominal fee I took the party of four to Spencer's, continued on to the barn and was home by 11pm (the time my shift, had I not been given a special dispensation, would have been over.) The next day Ro advised me that Kar and Newbie went in with only the single ride each.

So, was my bottom line that evening (four full rides, one shuttle) due to my spectacular salesmanship? Not really. I didn't "sell" any of them. It was all a case of RPRT, which is Ok by me, although it made me a DRB because I did so well and I'm sure there was some grumbling about me being a LDPT. But that’s TFB.



*LDPT = I worked a uniformed security guard at Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg, Illinois back in the early 80s. Yes, I was a "Mall Cop." I worked undercover in Loss Prevention at TJ Maxx, and for the (really dating myself now) Woolco stores. I was also employed by a detective agency for a short time, until their contract with Northrop expired.

During my employment at the mall I was called to Noah's Ark pet store because a man came in, stole a puppy, and left. While I was taking the report he returned, drunk, with the dog. He and his buddies took it to a bar. The manager elected not to press charges since the dog was returned and unharmed. Then, while escorting the drunken puppy thief off the property, he asked me out. I consider the LDPT curse to be pretty heinous. Since we work in front of Temple Square we try not to drop the "F" bomb in front of the general public, so we have developed our "swear code" of acronyms.

Pappa's Got a Brand New Bag...

Thursday started off like most Thursdays do. Read the newspaper, coffee, checking e mail and blog status. I noticed on the Feedjit that someone visited from Murray, Kentucky by Googling "morgan freeman, d.v.m." He's our barn Vet. I didn't check the link, which I do sometimes because I'm 50% anal-retentive and 50% curious.

On a whim I called Ro, barn manager extraordinaire. She works Thursdays, Fridays and Mondays and sometimes I drive downtown and we have lunch together. Occasionally we are joined by MBA, The Fabulous Todd, or the carriage company owner, but today it was just the two of us.

During lunch I mentioned the Murray, Kentucky blog visitor. We hurried through our meal because she needed to get back to the carriage barn. Kid, one of the longest employees of Carriage for Hire, was being retired and Crazy Shelley, a driver of ours, was meeting us there at 1:00 pm to fill out the paperwork. Crazy Shelley, who is not as crazy as her name denotes, works for the Hippotherapy program where Kid was retiring. I guess retiring is not what happened to Kid, but for a carriage horse to go from working one or two days a week pulling carriage to walking around a soft arena with a little kid on his back an hour or two a day is the equivalent of a steelworker going from working the mills to becoming a greeter at Wal-Mart. Enough mental and physical exercise to keep them sharp, but not enough to wear them out. For Kid, who is broke to drive and ride and absolutely loves children, it's a perfect match.

When Crazy Shelley arrived I asked her about the program Kid was entering into. She told me it was called Courage Reins, and advised that Kid would be well cared for and loved. The love part is very important to us. (Right, Belle's Personal Assistant?) We do do love our equine co-workers, and it's good when they leave us for a place where they are showered with as much affection as they get from us. Marky-Mark, for example, will be heartbroken.

I had to leave, errands calling me away from my final fare-well to kid. But I took a couple of pictures with my cell phone for my virtual scrapbook.

Ro styled Kid's forelock. I think it’s called the "Sideshow Bob" look.






Anyway, I took off and went to Wal-Mart where I bought some lettuce starters. I had a big garden when we lived on the farm in Missouri, and miss the lettuce the most. Being able to walk out your door and pick a salad is handy and rewarding. I just don't eat enough greens these days.

When I returned home Ro called and asked if I could work; they were desperate, having booked three appointments all at 6pm and only having two drivers scheduled for the evening. So, after some whining and finagling, I agreed. But before I left the house to return downtown, where I had just been, I checked the Feedjit again, clicking on the Murray, Kentucky link out of that anal-retentive curiosity.

A Morgan Freeman, D.V.M. inquiry brings up only two links: Confessions of a Slave Driver, Cletus Master of the Urineverse and Courage Reins.

How freaky is that?

And, on a totally unrelated note, Carriage Driver Kar told me that last week she was explaining to some children what a horse's Chestnuts are. If you don't know, go here. Anyway, when she'd finished her lesson she was approached by a man who called her a "Blasphemous Blasphemer." You know, it's an evolution vs creation thing. She was mildly impressed that he could say it so fast without tripping over it like a tongue-twister.

So, from now on Carriage Driver Kar's nickname is "BB, Darwin's Satanic Imp."

Killing Me Softly

Killing my darlings

That’s what someone said editing out all the unnecessary words was akin to. That’s what I'm doing today, killing my darlings. It's supposed to make your work better, trimming 10% of the fat. Leaner, faster, more aerodynamic prose.

I hate it. It makes me feel like someone just crapped in my Cocoa-Puffs.
BUT, one of the writing groups I belong to has a contest and their short stories are required to be 2500 words or less. So, here I am, wasting valuable time watching clips from SNL on Hulu (I adore Hulu. It's the ultimate in couch potato sites. "What, were you too lazy to DVR the last episode of Burn Notice? Dude, it's on HULU!!!") or, you might have noticed, writing a blog, when I'm supposed to be doing a slash and burn on my apparently-not-short-enough short story.

So, for your reading pleasure, here is how I'm taking a story that starts at 3848 words and whittle it down to 2500 without totally making it sound like something my kid sent to me in a text message:

First, of course, all the adverbs must go. Then I cut all non-essential information. Then I do what in the film business they call "Cheating".

A couple of = several
Hear that= understand
Are required to be= must be
I took= taking

See? It's tedious. And then my characters all have to speak in contractions- no full sentences. That way we kill off all of the Wills and Nots and Haves reducing the "I have" to "I've". One word. And I need to cut out 1348 of them and still have it make sense. Still have it make you feel.

Grrr, it's like thinning out your grocery cart so you can squeeze into the 10 items or less line when you have a Nazi for a cashier.

Now, this is what cheezes me the most: It's called a writers "voice". Those of you who do not know me for reals, I write exactly the way I talk. And I have a very distinctive, very recognizable speaking voice.

Keeping your voice
is very important.
Otherwise you're just
another pretty face

So, having to chop out my personal spin on the language I use is torturous. And, of course, having to limit the amount I talk to boot.

Oh look, it's 5:00 pm.

I love daylight savings time. Happy Hour comes that much sooner. Maybe I can high-lite/cut better under the influence of wine.

And don't let your darlings play in my yard, because I can't guarantee their safety.

"Bill, There Are Strange Things Afoot at the Circle K"

"I don't want you taking no more stinking pictures of me!!!"

It's been an odd week.

Monday morning my neighbor called. Her ex is a cop. She advised me to go into lockdown mode because some suicidal nutjob was walking around our neighborhood, sporting a handgun. I had to go outside and bring the old blind/deaf dog in. It's difficult to keep a low profile if you're standing out in the backyard in your jammies yelling "COWBOY!!! Get your ass in the house!!!"

I wasn't scared. After all, my home protection equipment includes a deaf/blind/circling the drain Border collie whose gas passing could subdue even the most hardened of criminals, and the accessory dog, a Pomeranian, who I could easily throw at an intruder. Believe me, her breath would knock you out. Plus I have a gun. I just can't remember where I put it. Someplace safe, I'm sure. Eventually they found said nutjob, all in one piece, the next street over. The last time something like this happened a mountain lion was three doors down.

Stan

Tuesday I went to see how Stan was doing. He's still attached to Dreamer's leg. I was without an assistant, so I had to squat, hold camera with right hand, hold apple with left hand, take picture and avoid having my fingers munched. Naturally, in the midst of this my phone rings, Dreamer lobs apple spuz at my hair, and my pinky gets bit.
It was Ro. She wanted to meet for lunch.
More apples, please...



Later, back home, a young woman came to the door. I think she was selling some magazine thing…she kept talking about points and 200 children and a contest; her patter was very smooth and practiced…I was distracted by her tongue stud, which made her sound like she had a cue ball lodged in her mouth. Now, I'm sure I was staring, and sometimes when I get fixated on a thing I appear to have major retardation problems. She kept instructing me to open or flip the brochure and since I had a difficult time comprehending WTF she was saying, the girl would snatch it from my grasp and open or flip according to the rest of her spiel.

Finally, unable to take the mush mouth hard sell I said, "I don't want any magazines."

She yanked her brochure away from me and said, "Well, it's not about the magazines, it's about the children!" Real snotty like.

I guess that was supposed to make me feel bad. Unbeknownst to her…I don't like other people's children. I am turning into the lady that yells at kids for playing in my yard and confiscates the softballs that are lobbed over the fence. She would have been better off plying me with liquor or puppies. Oh well, her loss.

Wednesday I was Juror number 64705568. Since Friday night I have had to call a phone number every evening after 5PM to see if I was needed the next day. Tuesday night I was the lucky winner. In the morning I arrived at the appointed time (8:30) with a book (highly recommended) in "appropriate attire" (business casual) to do my civic duty. This is not a problem for me, remember, I don't have a "real" job. And they were giving me $18 just to show up. Jackpot!

No, I was not picked. In fact, none of us even got in because the case was continued. So, after 2.5 hours, we were dismissed.

Now, allow me a moment to comment on Appropriate Attire; Business Casual. Apparently, the term "Business Casual" is purely subjective. And, quite frankly, I can see where it would be. After all, who is setting the standard? For me, business casual means I wear black jeans, a white button down collared shirt, and ditch the Tuxedo jacket. Business formal, of course, would require the Tux and a tie along with my hat.

I dressed in khakis, nice blouse, Armani jacket (Hey, don't get all excited, I got it at DI for $8) and shoes without horse crap embedded in them. In other words, respectable looking.

Now, you run, say, an investment firm, business casual might be dress pants and a Oxford shirt, no tie, maybe a sport coat to complete the ensemble. Conversely, if you run, say, the Tilt-A-Whirl, business casual might be greasy jeans and a Motley Crue t-shirt with less than 3 battery acid holes. So, see? Purely subjective.

And I gotta say, way more roustabouts than investment bankers there. Although at this point in economic time I could be wrong. They might all be dressing about the same.

I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide

Moscow. That's right, MOSCOW, and I'm not talking Moscow freakin' Idaho, here, either.

One of the most fun aspects of keeping this blog going is tracking who stops by for a visit. I mean, why you stop by to read my divinely written prose drivel is your business/problem/part of a 12 step program, not mine. I often wonder what makes you waste time that could be better spent watching a "Sham-Wow" infomercial, or in my case, coaxing that delicious "squeak" and refreshing "pop" out of a bottle of wine, but hey, it's your internet connection not mine. So I have that Feedjit tracker thing and it tells me some stuff like what search criteria was used (Oh man I am SO not going into details about that) what time you showed up, what pictures you looked at, where you skipped out to two-time me with another blog, but mostly how you got here.

Oslo, Norway (Nope, don't know anyone there. I'm sure your English is far better than my Norsk, although I do a mean Minnesota accent, don' cha know…)

Was it word of mouth? Was it from The Jumping Percheron Blog? Did my mother make you?

You see the Hawaii and Wyoming visitors are mostly Stacey and Belle's Personal Assistant, two former co-workers of mine. They stop by for gossip and pictures/news of their favorite former co-worker (and we're talking the equines here, they have no interest in pictures of me.) Occasionally my family shows up (Tucson/California/pockets of Illinois) but that’s only under coercion. My friend who lives in Beverly Hills, Florida stops by for a visit to see what kind of a mess I've gotten myself into now (she is the Ethel to my Lucy.) And a few of the volunteers from Sundance and carriage company co-workers drop in to see which end of town they should avoid…

Tampa, Florida (my brother used to live there. I visited several times. Before I die I'm going for Gasparilla Day… It sounds like fun. Like a Gay Pride parade but with a lot more swashbuckling, tights, and "Arrgh!")

So what, I wonder, brought you here, and more important, why do you keep coming back. A few of you are fellow carriage driver in other parts of the country, so for you it's about the closest thing we have to a "Professional Organization", except now that the New Yorkers have joined the Teamsters, I guess I'm a scab. Utah is a right to work state, and we're the only game in town, so there you go.

United States (Okay, that could be anyone. So it depends on the operating system.)

Ro, for example, doesn't visit regularly because she has to listen to me go on and on and on until her ears bleed, live and in person. And besides, her internet connection is not much better than two tin cans and some kite string.

My imaginary friend Dusty stops by because I pay her. (She knows 1. I'm kidding, and 2. I'm weird) But what she doesn't know is that someday her real name will be on the acknowledgements page of my novel. She also knows that I'm anal-retentive which totally explains why I check that Feedjit thing like folks down south watch CBN.

Brisbane, Queensland (Nope, I only know that they were searching for the lyrics to "New Slang", so in my book that makes them okay-dokey because I really like the Shins.)

So I guess in the interest of satisfying my curiosity I need to know:

How did you get here? Stork bring ya? Random hit on Blogger? Did you run across a picture of Charlie's bubble butt and decide to stick around? Do you get my blog delivered fresh and hot to your email in box? Just curious, I don't judge.

Whatever the reason, it's okay. You're welcome to stay. On Fridays we have an extended happy hour and use souvenir Chicago Cubs baseball bats to beat the snot out of a Donkey shaped piñata filled with plastic airplane-sized bottles of booze. The one who leaves with the most bottles wins.

My own Private Idaho

First, we're going to start with a key.

In an effort to be good Americans and help stimulate the economy, we purchased a new truck this weekend. Not only that, but we drove over 1400 miles round trip, stayed in 2 motels, ate at 3 restaurants (and tipped the waitress) in order to do it. So I believe that we have done our part. The rest of you's need to get on the stick.

Why did we buy a new truck? Well, one reason is that in December, right around Christmas, I lost my "big" key ring. I have 2 sets, one with just the garage door opener fob & Jeep key and the other has everything , you know, EVERYTHING. All those annoying "Tabs" they give you to scan at the places you frequent. Blockbuster tab, Albertsons tab, Office Max perks tab, library card, etc. That one. Twice a week I went to Wal-Mart (because that's where I thought I lost it) and asked if anyone had turned it in. What I have learned about Wal-Mart is; they have a drawer by the cash registers where the things that have been found go. However, once the keys have been around for a while they migrate into a box they keep behind the counter at the service desk. Apparently, this box is a well kept secret, because on several of my visits I had to tell the service desk employee where they could find the treasure chest so I could paw through it, hoping that my keys had turned up there. You see, besides a key to my Jeep, which is a simple thing that looks like, well, a Key, and costs $1.06 at True Value to copy, the high tech keyless entry and ignition key to our Dodge truck was on that key ring. When my big key ring went AWOL I refused to get a new Dodge key because it costs $90.00 for that type. I also kept hoping that it would turn up at Wal-Mart. I am an eternal optimist.

I did eventually find my key ring. No, not at Wally-World, but in my front yard. Apparently I dropped it whilst assisting Mr. Slave Driver with snow removal. He, in turn, unknowingly sucked it through the snow blower, which launched it into our front yard. It sat, buried under the avalanche of accumulated driveway snow, for a month.

Lesson learned? Keys with remote keyless entry functions do not fare well in a cold, moist climate. Of course running through the churning snow blower was not exactly good for them, either.

Anyway, it started with a key, and then we decided that repair costs and other factors validated our new vehicle purchase. So, Mr. Slave Driver did some research, took care of all the financing information, and off to Kellogg, Idaho we went to visit one of the highest volume car dealers in the United States.

Now, I have long subscribed to the theory that it is, indeed, a small world. I have numerous examples of this, but here is one: My friend and I, on vacation from Chicago, were sunning ourselves on a beach on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. A man walked up to my friend and asked, "Aren’t you the waitress at the Pickwick restaurant in Park Ridge, Illinois?" Yes, she was. He was a regular customer.

So it was really no surprise to me that as Mr. Slave Driver and I dined on lunch at the Perkins Restaurant in Pocatello, Idaho, in walked Omar.
Omar is the projectionist for the Rose Wagner Theater during the Sundance Film Festival. That is the venue I volunteer at. Every year, for ten days, I see Omar. It was no surprise to me because we were only a couple of hours away from home. Had I seen him at a diner in Chicago, I would have astonished.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the American west, there are vast stretches of land with little or nothing to see. Except, of course, land.



On part of our journey we cross the Lava Fields in Idaho. The first time we drove through this area I had no idea what the hell it was. It looked like black rocks. But there is a rest stop with the geological information right around mile 100 on I-15. Very interesting stuff.

Also, further along, up into Montana (to get to where we were going you drive through Utah, Idaho, Montana, and then back into Idaho. That’s what Idaho gets for being such an odd shaped state) there are vast areas of pasture land. This is the place where "The deer and the antelope play." We saw both deer and antelope, but I must admit I never saw them play together.

Those beige dots are Antelope.

The car dealership takes up most of the small town of Kellogg. Our salesperson advised us that since the mine closed, this business is the biggest employer around. I believe it.

So, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting around, we finally got our new vehicle. Having a nice long ride home gave us time to read the manual and check out all the cool new equipment. But my favorite is the key.
They gave us this thing, and I said, "WTF?"

But you stick it in the ignition and it starts the car. Then, if you want to lock your car and walk away so it warms up, you do this:


And voila! You have a key.

I hope it'll pass the snowblower test. The old one didn't do so good...

When Research Crosses the Ick Factor

I have to do some research for a chapter I need to write in the manuscript I am currently working on. Now, when I say "research" I often mean "experience." Much of what I research cannot be done online or from books. I do not write historical stories. I do not write paranormal or science fiction, I write about carriage drivers set in a real city working for a company based loosely on the one I work for. My main character is a widow with brain damage who is missing her left foot. I am not any of these things (okay, people who know me will argue about the "brain damage" trait…) But, be that as it may, I can pull many of the events that occur from real life.

One example of my research:

I got a tattoo because I needed to experience what it was like. Ended up I did not use the "experience" in a scene but it made me more appreciative of the process. And what I discovered was this: The "pain" was not that big of a deal (although my Tat was placed in a meaty part of my body, so it did not entail much nerve/bone contact, which I understand amps up the "owie" factor exponentially) What I did learned was this: The itching while your tattoo heals surpasses the boredom, pain, and other mildly annoying things one puts up with during and after the process. No one told me this. In fact, the itching was never even mentioned by anyone. So, that’s was what I learned from that specific endeavor. And you cannot scratch it— it scuffs the ink.

Another example of my research was unintentional, but informative. I try to visit former carriage driver Wease twice a year. She lives in the beautiful Cache Valley 90 minutes north of me. On my last visit I was accompanied by The Fabulous Todd. Now, several of my minor characters are gay. So is TFT. During our weekend visit I learned more about the life of a homosexual man than, as a middle aged heterosexual woman, I ever needed to know. I will not elaborate, but I will never be able to watch baseball the same way again. Anyway, the one thing I took away from our weekend is the phrase "Strictly Dickly," which it turns out applied not only to TFT (never had sex with a woman, only men) also applies to me. It will be used in dialog in the current WIP.

Now I need to research a funeral. Not your everyday, "Great Aunt Mildred died, we're going to her wake, we're bringing a casserole" kind of a thing, but specifically utilizing a horse drawn hearse during a quasi-military funeral. For this I need to have three things aligned:

1) Someone has to die
2) They had to have been a member of the military
3) The family wants to incorporate a horse drawn hearse in the ceremony.

Not as easy as it sounds.

So I have asked Ro, barn manager extraordinaire, to include me, if at all possible, the next time these three pre-requisites are met. She advised me to pick the brain of the carriage company owner because he is an encyclopedia of knowledge concerning these tributes, as he should be. Knowing proper procedure and protocol is essential when bestowing honor.

We do "regular" funerals;


Uncle Bob was a horse lover; his family knows he would have appreciated the gesture, so they hire us to carry the casket to Bob's final resting place. This type of thing I can get first hand from Ro. She is a widow, and the carriage company performed this service for her at her husband's funeral. So she has described the event for me. But that, to me, is not the same as riding up top with the driver, viewing the cemetery from that vantage point. Watching the mourners walking behind the hearse. The smell of the flowers, the feel of the wind, the sound of the wheels on the asphalt/gravel/dirt as we slowly roll down the road/path/pasture we are driving on.

Because considerable time has passed and her emotional wounds have healed, I can talk to Ro about aspects of her husband's passing; the anger she felt about the way the Utah Highway Patrol informed her. The shock, the disbelief, the panic at realizing that she was a widow and their six-month old son was now fatherless. The relief she felt because her friend was there with her the day she received the autopsy report in the mail. The utter lost and fragile feeling she experienced while waiting in the social security office, papers in hand, baby on her hip, to file a claim. The overwhelming reality of it all.

So my question is this: When does research take a dive and end up as morbid curiosity?

Rex, the Dumpster Diving Crack Horse.

Rex came from a competing company, and that's what the drivers called him.

You've seen a picture of Rex, but I don't talk much about him. There is a simple explanation for that;

We don't like each other.

Mind you, not liking Rex the Dumpster Diving Crack Horse has nothing to do with respect, because I have a lot of that for him.

Rex and I worked a wedding one Christmas season (we don't typically do weddings during Christmas; too PITA) where we had to take the bride and groom from JSB to, are you sitting? Their reception at The Sizzler. No, no, it's not some tres chic five star French Restaurant with a similar sounding name as the cheap steak/baked potato/all you can eat shrimp and Malibu chicken place. It is the same place. You know, lots of hunter green, mauve and fern décor. The bride and groom, dead ringers for the models from Grant Woods "American Gothic" (although younger and wearing wedding attire not depression era farm clothing)

were as peppy and enthusiastic as dry, white toast.
Rex and I took them first to their reception, then we wandered around that end of town for a while. Rex was not too happy being away from his herd for so long, so we paced around the parking lot of Firestone so he could see his reflection and faked him into thinking there was a surly looking red horse walking around in circles next to him. Eventually we returned Chez Sizzler and pick them up, taking them back to JSB.

I asked for Rex when I knew that we would be filmed in a promotional spot for our local ABC affiliate. Having already been in a UTA (Utah Transit Authority) commercial, and numerous wedding videos, I knew there was some equipment that the horses are not too crazy about, like big floppy reflectors. So I took Rex, and he was great, although he got much more screen time than I did, but I'm okay with that.

Another time I was the recipient of a reservation which involved me and a horse to stand around Memory Grove for anywhere from .30 to .60 minutes, have photos taken, then drive the Bride less than 500 yards down the lane to where the vows were to be taken, drop her and leave. I specifically asked for Rex.

Now, if I don't like him so much why, you ask, do I keep requesting him as my co worker?

Because Rex doesn't give a shit. About anything. Fireworks, balloons, big round shiny things, dogs, kids, nothing. He doesn't care if you like him, you hate him, you give him treats or you don't. He even tolerates Marky-Marks hat fetish.




And he is especially good at standing around doing nothing for hours, which is actually a lot harder for a horse than it sounds. When they get bored they tend to get a little edgy after a while and want to get back to their buddies. It's really annoying when you've got a photo shoot and your horse has antsy pants.

There are two really great features about Rex. Now, have you ever heard people refer to a horse as having a "Kind Eye"? Yeah… Rex doesn't have that; he has a shifty, squinty, "I wish I had a thumb so I could knife you" eye. But he does have a naturally curly tail, which is very pretty, and his coat stays sleek all year so even in the worst conditions he's easy to clean up.




So, to sum up:

Cons: Nasty disposition, lazy, surly shifty eyes.
Pros: Curly tail, coat that cleans easily, able to stand around loafing for hours on end.


Come to think of it, we don't get along because we're a lot alike.
Except my tail's not curly.

All in a Nights Work

Sorry, constant readers, not much to blog about this week. I've been busy with the usual crap, writing, sleeping, doing the things one has to do to maintain their day to day stuff. On the upside, I am working tonight. It was supposed to be me and The Fabulous Todd, but he has a standing appointment with his personal trainer, so he bagged last week. I do however get to work with Marky-Mark.

You remember Marky-Mark, right? If not here is a visual.




I imagine that neither Marky-Mark or Rex will be wearing the Santa hats. However, Marky-Mark does require his equine co-worker to wear some kind of chapeau. The choice waffles between a Cowboy hat that looks like he stole it from a drunk chick at a Kenny Chesney concert, or a black faux-leather number that would have made Freddy Mercury weep with envy. One day Marky-Mark will amass a collection rivaled only by The Village People. I imagine that a warrior feather bonnet will be his next acquisition in his collection of prêt-a-porter. But that’s okay with me, because we all have an angle, and Marky-Mark snags all the customers with young children. I appreciate that, because hauling around a carriage with screaming, sticky children whipped into a Mountain-Dew sugar and caffeine induced frenzy is not my idea of a pleasant evening. I'll take a carriage full of drunks any day. They're less annoying and tip so much better.

And besides I haven't seen Marky-Mark since Christmas.

There is also a newbie working with us tonight, which is always fun. Last time I worked with him I was at the top of the "Most Hated Carriage Driver" list because I kept snagging rides and, well, he didn't.

Oh well. If this job was easy, everybody would be doing it.

Barn Trek: The Wrath of Stan

I had another rendezvous with Buzz today, and in honor of President's Day, I brought my Vet-wanna-be. She got to hold Dreamer, and I got to take pictures. I used her camera, which is why the photos are a higher quality than you have been used to.
We arrived and to our delight we were greeted by this cutie pie;

My Kid and Mrs. Mare's kid had a conversation (probably about lousy mothers)





Sorry, but the adorable factor is out of the park here and I'm not usually an "adorable" addict so bare with me for one last saccharine photo op…


Okay, I think I'm done. So we pulled Dreamer out of his paddock and of course he had his usual fit, being denied the comfort and companionship of his girlfriend, Missy. So he did a lot of whining. But he'll get over it.
You can see from this photo the scope of Stan's occupation:

Then Buzz, our Vet, got busy filling the small spritzer from the Jug-O-Nitrogen. We like the festive crackling sound it makes when he splashes it on the ground and it freezes the mud to the point where you can crack it with a hammer.



Then Dreamer got his fix. He's not the most co-operative of patients, and can be a real pain in the ass. So Buzz slips him a Rufie, and in no time at you have this:






So Buzz started to work on Stan, and I got what I consider to be a beautiful shot; I don't know if the resolution will transfer over to the net, but I love the mist left hanging in the air from the liquid nitrogen, and the frosty look of Stan.


And here is a close up of a Stan-cicle… Buzz peeled a chunk off of him and we took it home and froze it so next month The Kid can take it into Biology and look at it under a microscope just for funzies.


Yeah, I know we're weird people but it works for us, Okay?

And finally here is another photo of Dreamer, looking very brave, considering he didn't get a Lolly-Pop when it was over.








But he did get an apple.
And The Kid and I? We got pedicures.

Cletus, Master of the Urineverse

Content Advisory Warning:

If you are eating while reading this or have issues with bodily functions, you might want to skip this particular blog.

However, if you have ever been a parent, janitor, pet owner, or worked for Dy-Dee Wash, jump right in, the, um, waters warm…


Cletus is my favorite co-worker. He has a work ethic that surpasses even the most dedicated human I've ever been employed with. He has his quirks, like most of us do, but once you understand him, it's okay.

Cletus is leery of box trucks (Fed-Ex, UPS, moving vans, etc.) but only if they are parked and the back door is open. When they are in traffic they just blend in with the rest of the vehicles flying by the carriage. And when you examine a parked truck, from a horse's perspective, I can understand where he's coming from. The monster lies motionless for its prey, huge mouth agape, waiting for an unsuspecting victim to saunter by. Cletus has witnessed the Truckasaurous eat people! Stupid people who have actually walked into its jaws to certain death!

Apparently he's blocked out the part where the people escape, usually carrying a package or piece of furniture.

So when we pass these predators he's always a little suspicious, eyeballing them the entire time until the danger has passed, convinced that they hunger for a tasty snack of non-vigilant draft horse.

He also has a thing about urination. The horses are discouraged from urinating while staging at South Gate. Why? Have you ever smelled horse urine? Besides the vast quantity of fluid that their bladders can hold, it's very pungent. And once one horse "goes" it sets off a chain reaction, and the next thing you know we have our own little river of toxic waste cascading down the gutter. Not exactly an appealing atmosphere to sell rides in. Or, you know, breathe.

So the horses urinate while stopped in traffic. This, I tell my trainees, is why we never stop in the crosswalk, always behind it. And, on a sunny cloudless summer day, if you do step in a big foamy puddle in the middle of an otherwise dry street, that's your punishment for jaywalking. See? You shoulda crossed at the light. No one but yourself to blame.

Anyway, two stories about Cletus and his urine.

The first happened several summers ago. It was a Saturday, warm and beautiful. Cletus and I were very busy, and I knew he had to pee because there are signs:
When we stop for a red light he lifts his tail and "drops." For you non-horsey types, that means his penis descends from its warm little home and hangs down to do the deed. Most of the time from our vantage point this goes unnoticed because the tail is blocking the drivers view. But Cletus has a tail that is crooked. It looks like at some point in his life it was broken, so when he lifts his tail it actually moves several inches to the left, thus allowing an unencumbered view.

Remember, I drive around town staring at a big hairy ass all night. So, you know, you have to find entertainment where you can.

So we had been very busy and every time we stopped for a red light he would begin his pre-peeing preparations and the light would turn green. I tried several times to make his wait and pee but as I have previously said, he's got a great work ethic and apparently to him that means if the light is green we go.

Oh, yeah, the horses know when the light changes. I don't know how; we have our theories, but no one has handed us a muli-million dollar Pell grant to investigate it further, so…

We made it up to Memory Grove, our destination, and back again. My passengers, a young couple, were enjoying the ride, and as we came around a curve I noticed that Cletus had his tail up and had "dropped".

Now, I have never seen a horse urinate while walking. Ours all stop to pee. Most of them can poop while walking (except for Charlie who comes to a full and complete stop to unload, apparently unable to multitask) but peeing on the fly? Not so much.

So Cletus dropped and began to let loose a stream of urine. Oh, and did I tell you that when they "go" they tend to get a little, um, stiff? So Cletus is walking, sporting his stiffie, and urinating. Now, this is where physics comes into play. Because while he's walking, his ding-a-ling is swaying gently to and fro, spraying both of his back hooves and legs with a warm stream of liquid, which really never happens while we're working. Splashing, yes, there is after all a certain amount of PSI unleashed when they piss. But actually hitting them full force on the legs, not really.

I, sitting up top, find this whole scenario fascinating because I have never witnessed a horse walk and pee.

Cletus, apparently not a student of "cause and effect", begins to do a little dance with his back end because he is thinking: "Something's spraying me!!!" This, due to the laws of physics, sends his penis on an even larger arc of sway (the pendulum effect) and it begins to whack him on the inside of his back legs, catapulting him into an even more frenzied bunny hop because now his thought is: "Something's touching me!!!"

I, up top, am doubled over with laughter, at which point my passengers ask, "What's so funny?"

This makes me convulse even more because, let's face it, shall we? It's taken me more than 800 words to bring you to this point, so a one sentence explanation is not going to cut it, and to tell the truth not everyone would find this amusing. There is, after all, a certain "Ick" factor at work here. That would be why I started this story with the Content Advisory Warning. A urine induced River Dance is just not that funny to the average Joe.

So, I stop, Cletus finishes, and we all live happily ever after in a Urine-Event-Free society. Until last Tuesday night.

This one is a little shorter. I had an appointment, with the pickup at The Melting Pot. You might have one in your town. It's a chain of Fondu restaurants. Kind of pricy, and dinner takes about two hours to eat. So I got there about eight minutes early, and pulled Cletus up just past the space for the Valet Parking guys. We usually get along with them all right. I parked Cletus next to a grey sedan. I looked at the trunk of the car, and it has a weird looking "B" on it, which reminded me of the "B" that the Boston Red Sox have on their hats, but a different color. I took a look at the car and thought "Buick?" Naaa, and the "B" was bookended by what looked like wings, so I thought maybe some kid had stuck a sticker on Dad's trunk. Mind you, I've never said I was into cars. Could I pick the Lamborghini from the Ferrari? Probably not, but I'm pretty sure I could pick the Porsche from the Ford.

Anyway, I noticed that Cletus, once he had established that we were stopped, had chosen this opportunity to pee. I looked over at the restaurant windows and was a little relieved to see that the patron's sight-line was blocked by the grey car, so their dining enjoyment would not be ruined by my horses bladder Olympics. Of course there is a bit of splash factor to take into account when he goes potty but the streets were wet from the recent snowfall, so it wouldn't be too obvious. Checking the time I turned to the Valet and said, "I have a pickup at seven, so I'll be out of your way in a couple of minutes."

The valet responded, "You're okay. Just going to hang out by the Bentley, huh?"

Me: (Gulp) looking at the grey car, "Is that what that is?" I might not know what they look like but I recognize that "Cha-ching" sound.

The nice valet said, "Yes." And like most of them, who are in contact with famous people all the time (because famous people don't park their own cars at nice restaurants) he likes to kiss and tell. "Are you a Jazz fan?" he asks. (Utah Jazz, NBA team. Not, you know, a Jazz fan like Kenny G jazz)

"No, not really, but if you say a name…"

"It belongs to Andre Kirilenko."

Good job, Cletus, splashing piss all over the door of Andre Kirilenko's Bentley. Not to mention the puddle…

I thought about it for a minute and decided to come clean.

"You might want to tell him to wipe his feet before he gets in."