There Is No Warranty Against Insanity

I have a pool. It's nothing grand; people who usually vacation at the Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island in the Bahamas will not flock to my backyard any time soon. It's large enough for me to get into, as opposed to Luna's pool,
Luna's Pool
which I would not want to get into because it's dirty and has a distinct "Eau de Moist Chien" aroma about it.

Anyway, I purchased a solar cover for my pool. Living as I do in the desert with the low humidity, it can be very hot during the day but as soon as the sun goes down it rapidly cools. With a solar cover, the idea is that as the sun warms the pool, the little bubbles create extra mass (similar to a serrated blade being "longer" than a straight blade. The serrations add length; the bubbles add surface space or volume.) The cover also allows the air in the bubbles to heat up with then helps heat the water, and the cover helps retain the heat and also decreases evaporation.

So, I have a solar cover. Over this past spring into summer I've noticed after removing the solar cover a bunch of the "bubbles" have remained in the pool. In fact, often times it looks like I'm swimming with a jillion contact lenses, or very tiny appendage-less jellyfish. So, unable to locate my receipt (of course) I called the company I purchased it from, asked them to look up my sale via my customer number, and found out that, contrary to usual M.O. I did not in fact buy the cheapest piece of crap they sell, but one with a 2 year full and 8 year partial warranty.

And, the item is still under warranty. The helpful operator advised me the steps I needed to do to submit a claim:

Cut a 12x12 piece of the cover out.




Write a letter with my information on it so they can verify the purchase.

Slip the cover sample and the letter into a padded envelope…

???



Excuse me? A PADDED envelope? To ship stuff that is essentially really thick bubble wrap?

Insane.

No Validation

I know I'm a little behind over here but it's been a busy couple of weeks so…
Today's post is about food. No surprise there— I blog about food every once in a while. I've never been much of a "snacker." I have no compulsion to graze my way through a day, eating everything within reach. I've never drilled my way to the bottom of a quart of ice cream, although cradling a container of Baskin & Robbins Rocky Road without snarfing the entire thing down is a test of strength.

I abhor the taquitos and hot dogs perpetually running on the food treadmill at 7-11. I don't consider that stuff food. But…to each his own. If I'm going to put it in my mouth it either better taste damn fine or give me a buzz. And when in direct competition with each other, depending on if I have to drive or not, buzz usually wins. So in a contest of Dove Chocolate vs. Wine, wine wins hands down. Give me that "squeak" and "pop" any day.

Anyway, none of this has anything to do with any of that except last week we tried two restaurants that we hadn't visited before. We (carriage drivers) like to try out places before we recommend them to tourists, because it's nasty when you do that and it comes back around to bit you in the ass.

Thursday Ro and I went to lunch at The Sand Bar. It's a place I've passed while working many times but never ventured into. Why? Well, because I'm working and it's so hard to find horse parking these days. Anyway, we entered the restaurant and were greeted by John Stamos's little brother. Or at least he looked like he could be his little brother. So right away the place gets points for hiring good looking staff and not trolls or fugly carriage-driver looking people.

It was easy to get a table because we were the only customers there. The interior was cute with a beach theme and two free-standing bars, plus the patio seating, I can understand why it's a popular spot. We both ordered Buffalo Chicken wraps which were very tasty and reasonably priced. Ro bought lunch because she felt she owed me for delivering flowers to a dance recital for her, and our lunches, with one ice tea, were around $16.00. Ro left a $5 tip because we tip well and the waiter did a good job. Plus, you know, he was cute. So lunch with a view.

On Friday, Ro, MBA and I went to a brand new place that we have been waiting to open with great anticipation. It is located directly across the street from where we stage at Temple Square and is called The Blue Lemon. We've looked up the menu on line, discussed the various entrees and soups we were interested in trying, and made a date to go. And we're very happy because they have a full coffee bar. You might not think this is so special, but I live in Salt Lake, where the predominant religion eschews coffee like it's pure evil in liquid form.

First, when we get there we decide to park underneath the restaurant because the parking signs were plastered with —>"Blue Lemon Parking Here"<— notices.

MBA grabbed the parking ticket, and we head upstairs to the restaurant. It's considered "Upscale Casual." That means you stand in line to order and pay a lot of money then they bring it to your table. You know, like at Sizzler, except with higher prices, and smaller portions, but nicer plates.

MBA and I both ordered the same item: Chicken breast with roasted artichoke hearts and tomatoes, glazed onions, over herb-garlic mashed potatoes with a roasted red pepper and spinach cream sauce. Ro ordered the Blue Lemon Steak which was topped with bacon and gorgonzola cheese on top of a bed of succotash and the herb-garlic mashed potatoes with gravy.

When our meals arrived, mine and Ro's only, Ro moved her steak off of her potatoes (she's on a very restrictive diet) and held up a squiggly red thing that was stuck between the steak and taters.

"What's that?"

Ro displayed it like Vanna White turning a letter.

"Twist. Tie." She said.

Just then our waiter, who was not nearly as cute as the one from the day before, walked by.

"Pardon me," I said very nicely, which we all know is rare for me, "is this a new type of garnish?"

He peered at it and asked, "What is it?"

"Twist. Tie." Ro repeated, doing her Vanna White impression for him.

"Where did you find that?"

"Under my steak, in the succotash."

The waiter, (did I mention that this waiter did, in fact, pale by comparison to the Sand Bar waiter. Not that I'm obsessed or anything) apologized and asked if she wanted a new one. She declined, but put the twist tie in the center of the table as evidence.

Eventually, MBA's meal arrived. She started in on the artichoke and tomatoes and said to me, "These are cold. Are yours cold?"

"No."

"Mine are."

Our (looks nothing like John Stamos) waiter walked by;

"Excuse me," says MBA, who, unlike me, is always polite, "are these vegetables supposed to be cold?"

"No," the waiter replies, "they're sautéed."

"Well these are as cold as if they've come straight from the fridge," MBA advised him.

The waiter apologized and asked if she wanted another one.

Now, people, if I'd ordered a steak rare and it came well done, I'd want another one. But having worked in a restaurant, I don’t send stuff back. I want it taken off my bill. I've never spit on someone's returned order, but I know staff that have.
MBA said no.

So, we finished our meal, and our waiter, who was looking kind of ratty by then, brought us a (that would be one) complimentary slice of carrot cake. Now, not taking into account that TWO of the people at the table had received f*cked up food, both Ro and MBA are on diets.

Die. Ets.

Then, to add insult to injury, they were not "equipped" to validate our parking.

Two things to note:

We told several people who worked there that we were Carriage Drivers. Now, I understand that it doesn’t qualify us as New York Times Food Critics. However, on average per shift, anywhere from four to ten people ask us to recommend a place to eat. Now, the Sand bar is three blocks down West Temple. I'll be sure to send customers there. The Blue Lemon is right across the street. We're going to wait a month or so, and give Blue Lemon time to get their shit together. Because right now, I can't really in good conscience send people to that restaurant.

Not without validation.

The Evils of Preparedness

I've been dog shopping. It's a fun yet sad way to waste time, looking on Petfinder at all the doggies in need of homes. Happy and hopeful smiling canine faces, trying to catch hold of someone's heart with their tales of woe. Some of the copy is written in a very antiseptic manner, name, rank, serial number … just the facts. Yet other, more creative humans have done their best to pique your interest. It's called a "hook", and is what fiction writers do to grab and hold the attention of their readers.



Johnny Cash caught my eye, mostly because of his expression.

* Hi! My name is Johnny Cash. The man in white…the big man in white. Sometimes life doesn’t turn out the way you expect. One day you are home, safe and loved. And then, like in my case, you find yourself walking into a shelter – and not walking out with those you thought would always be there for you. I guess I wasn’t totally out of luck since I was transferred to rescue and on to another chance at someone to call my own.

Did I mention I am big? I am big in affection, looks and love…oh yes, and in pounds so I am on a little diet. I get along great with other dogs, but please no kitties. I know basic commands and have terrific house manners. What’s missing from my life? Well, at present it is a second helping at dinner and MOST importantly…you. Will you be mine? I can’t wait to meet you (Johnny Cash: German Shepherd, Male, White, DOB ~05/06, 145 lbs. and losing)


No, Cowboy hasn't passed yet. He's still holding on, snoozing away most of the day. His appetite is good, which is why we haven't taken the Big Sleep step yet. When Mr. Slave Driver comes home from work, Cowboy occasionally tries to engage him in a game of "Throw this slimy dog toy for me and I'll bring it back to you." Wease visited last Sunday, bringing her cluster of dogs down from Cache Valley. When they visit Cowboy reverts to his natural herding state, trying to force her dogs into submission by utilizing his patented Border Collie Glare. We try and discourage this behavior (yeah, right, like that ever worked…) because after they leave he's stiff and sore for several days.



Tiny looks like a sweetie...

** Tiny is an adorable Husky/Pyrenees mix who is about 5 years old. He is very loving and gets along well with children, cats and other dogs. He rarely barks, and walks very well with a pinch collar. Tiny's ideal home would have another dog there to keep him company when the family is away as he will escape if left alone. Tiny is better suited to be an outside dog, although he is calm indoors he needs to be watched carefully inside as he tends to be mischievous when the family is not watching him. With time and training Tiny would be an amazing family dog. For more information about Tiny or to meet him call the shelter at (208)785-6897 or Marcia (208)244-1513. Please leave a clear message with your name and number and that you are calling about the Tiny the Husky/Pyrenees cross. Tiny is up-to-date with routine shots and spayed/neutered.

Besides shopping for dogs I've also been looking up "services." Because as distasteful as it is, soon I will need services related to euthanasia and cremation. The local animal shelter provides this. I've never had to cremate a pet; we buried several, including my favorite rooster, on the farm, but the backyard here isn't big enough here, and I'm pretty sure it's not legal. So along with checking out the available replacement dogs, I've been researching options for Cowboys final destination.


I hope "Angus" finds a good home.

*** Angus is a big puppy about 4 months old. He is sweet and shy and needs to learn everything about being a dog. He has beautiful black and white markings from his Border Collie parent and will be a big boy from his Pyrenees parent! A patient owner who can take Angus to puppy obedience school would give him a great start in life. Come by and meet this boy! Angus is up-to-date with routine shots and spayed/neutered.



Mr. Slave Driver gets to choose our next dog. We have settled into a round-robin approach, taking turns deciding on the type of pet we want to live with us for the next 8-13 years. Mr. Slave Driver is partial to large dogs, although watching him with my Pomeranian you'd never know that he professes to dislike small "ankle biters." Last year at Strut Your Mutt he discovered a breed called "Leonberger" and immediately fell in love with them. They are an extra large dog with a double coat, webbed feet, and unlike, say, a St. Bernard, they don't drool. They also are supposed to have a super laid-back disposition, much like Mr. Slave Driver himself. Leonbergers are at the top of the short list now, along with Bernese Mountain Dogs, Newfoundlands, and Great Pyrenees. Whatever ends up living with us needs to like camping and Pomeranians. And Drafting. I would like to have a dog large enough to draft with, and I've already found the perfect cart to use.

Me, wanting a dog big enough to drive. Go figure.


* Are you a fan of Johnny Cash? You can find him at

Snow Capped Shepherd Rescue
PO Box 270981
Littleton, CO 80127

Email: wgsrescue@hotmail.com

Phone: (303) 973-SCSR (7277)

** Have you been tickled by Tiny? Drop in and see him at

Bingham County Humane Society
Blackfoot, ID
208-680-3881

***Intrigued by Angus? Check him out at

TELLER COUNTY REGIONAL ANIMAL SHELTER
308 Weaverville Road
PO Box 904
Divide, CO 80814
719-686-7707
office@tcrascolorado.com

Happy Birthday Alice Cooper

Yes, it's February 4, Alice Coopers Birthday. Also Rosa Parks, Charles Lindbergh, Dan Quayle, George Romero and Oscar De La Hoya.

But I love that it's Alice Cooper's birthday, because I grew up a fan of his music and identify the most with him on the list of Famous Birthdays Today.

What, you are asking yourself, does this have to do with Slave Driver?

Well, to quote the Beatles, "It's my birthday too, yeah."

And here is what I'm doing to celebrate:

Nothing.

First off, it's a Thursday. Not typically the day of the week one goes out to party. Plus, Mr. Slave Driver is on a clear liquid diet for today because he has a procedure tomorrow typically reserved for men of a certain age to check for polyps. So, obviously, there will be no fine dining or cake and ice cream today…we'll do that Saturday after he's recovered. Along with looking for a new clothes dryer, since ours quit on us last week.

It could be worse; several years ago my birthday fell on Super Bowl Sunday, the official holiday for football fans where the rules dictate that one cannot be more that 6 feet from a wide screen television. That day sucked ass. Because unless you follow football,(I don't) or are an aficionado of Buffalo chicken wings,(meh) your celebratory choices are severely limited.

The birthday I remember most fondly was a long, long time ago.

When I was a teenager, like most teenagers, my teenage friends were poor. My high school boyfriend was in a garage band, and I'd just had a major fight with my parents. So, being somewhat depressed about the entire situation, while I sat around band practice and stewed about the argument, my boyfriend and another person borrowed my car, took it to a car wash and cleaned it out (I'm a car slob. My personal vehicle always looks like a family of Gypsies has taken up residence. I subscribe to the theory that 1) it takes less time to apologize for a mess then it does to clean it and 2) if I'm ever stranded, I can forage for food in my car and survive for at least a week on the various half filled bags of Fritos and Starburst Fruit Chews I unearth from beneath the seats.) Then they filled the gas tank. For you young pups, back in the late 70's gas was between .32 and .40 cents a gallon. The most money I would invest in my gas tank at a time was $5.00, which filled the tank on my '67 Pontiac Catalina at least half way. I know this sounds like a fabulous deal, but mind you my car got a whopping 8 miles to the gallon. It could, however, sit eight people, comfortably, inside and fit three more in the trunk. You do not want to know the details of how I know this.

Ah, good times.

Anyway, in honor of my birthday I'm doing nothing today, so I'm sorry to report that this is the blog you're getting. It's about as close to nothing as I can manage.

Xmas, Schmexmas...

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

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

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




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




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

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




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



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

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

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

Dreamer, the day I got him

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

Oh. Yay.

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

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



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



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

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

But, technically, it still counts…




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

Choose Your Condiments Wisely

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are called the TMI Turkey


















and Awkward Turtle.










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

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

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

The Kid: "No. You look gay."

SD:"So… I look like a gay pirate?"

The Kid:"No. Just gay."

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

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

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

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

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

Camping Defined Refined

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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








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

My Bad...

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Why we don't call it the Lapdance Film Festival

My regular duties as Carriage Driver are finished now for the season, although if you want to take a ride go on down to South Gate and hook one with the fools hearty individuals willing to work the cruel month of January. I'll be inside the cozy and inviting Rose Wagner Theater, working the Sundance Film festival. That’s my excuse, and I'm sticking with it. It has, after all, worked for 4 years now…

Getting ready for Sundance takes a lot of preparation:

First, I have to warm up.

Second, I need to catch up on all the sleep I missed out on while carriage driving. Luckily for me I will be on approximately the same schedule I'm on when driving; go into work around 4:00 pm, go home sometime after midnight, so no change there.

Also, I won't have to wear quite so many layers, although I still put on the under-roos because it is, after all, January in Utah. Kenneth Cole, the fashionista that provides the Sundance Volunteers with their coats and liners (which are our "official" uniform) has apparently never lived anywhere other than the Equator because, while stylish, his garments are not precisely warm.

Then there is my hair. I have not had my hair cut in about three years. Why? Because I don't like getting into conversations with stylists, that’s why. If I could find a deaf/mute stylist I'd go every month. Okay, it is me we're talking about, and I am both lazy and cheap, so every six to eight months. But since my hair gets bleached out in the summer from my pool, is cursed with split ends, liberally sprinkled ( okay, doused is more like it) with grey, and is all around fugly, I need to so "something" to it prior to the festival so I can hobnob with 1) folks much younger than me and 2) Hollywood types and 3)New York City people all without being sneered at like I've just crawled out of the Van that I live in down by the river.

What the hell, you are asking right about now, does my #$@$%^#$ hair have to do with the title of today's blog?

Okay, here is how it all ties in: the last few years my job for Sundance was OUT Asst. MGR. This job involves me being in charge of the wait list line, which is an exterior (yes, outdoors) position. Except last year the line was moved indoors. Which was nice. Because it's warm. Anyway, I had several people vying for the last seat in the house, and since we only had one seat available, and there were two of them I could not accommodate their request. Because they were together; would not go without the other one, and refused to entertain my suggestion of either a duel to the death or at least an arm wrestling match.

Their suggestion was that I allow them both in and the man would sit in the seat and the woman would sit in his lap. That was when I advised them that this was the Sundance Film Festival, not the Lapdance Film Festival which takes place at the adult theater in Wendover, Nevada.

That was my old job. I got to do stuff like that. It was a lot like being a verbal hit man. One of the titles was "Crowd Liaison" which is polite-speak for "Bouncer."

Now, however, my job is IN Asst. MGR, which means I have to be NICE. Why? Because I'm the person the customers will come and complain to after visiting with the new OUT Asst. MGR.

Grrrrrrrr.

So this is going to be an interesting test for me, seeing if I can switch gears and be nice. And if I can't fake a smile very well, at least my hair will look good.

The Object of My Addiction:

Now for something a little on the lighter side.

Obviously, you know I like horses. How much do I like horses?

WAAAAAAAAAY much.

To the casual observer entering my house through the front door, my living room is an explosion of horses. I have a bathroom decorated in horses, and my kitchen is pretty much...well, you get the picture.

But my obvious addiction shines brightest at Christmas. How? Well, my Horsemas Tree, of course.








Some of these you can get from Breyer, others are weird custom jobs that have been gifts.









More than a few I've painted myself. Because I have an addiction. And I love horses.


I also love my Pomeranian, Sammie Two Chews.































And just to prove that I am a well rounded individual, here is a recent addition to my Christmas ornament collection:


I understand it's a Major Award!