It's Not You, It's Me…

I'm finding menopause difficult to—

Right now I'm in the middle of a number of things, plus—

deal with. First of all it seems I now —


My mom is all settled in her basement lair. She has two rooms and the run of—

lack the ability to focus on anything longer—


Is your refrigerator supposed to get hot on the sides? Because—

than a micro second. I mean, wandering into—


mine has been for the last two days and —

the kitchen then standing there openmouthed wondering what—

The Utah Romance Writers of America conference is next week, (October 7 & 8, The Canyons, Park City Utah) so as you can imagine—

it's been making sounds like it's—

the hell you came in there for in the first place is one thing. Going from room—

Damn, there's another hot flash. I wonder if I have any batteries in my flashlight? Oh, man, I need to write myself a note to get batteries.

grinding up sausage so either there is something —

to room doing it gets tedious. And when I'm not doing that, I'm flittering between—

The Kid joined the Army reserves. She looks great in her—

wrong with the insides or a small butcher moved into my fridge and is grinding up hamburger.

three different things like a 12 year old with ADHD at Scout-O-Rama, and not finishing anything. I'm —

how I am so completely swamped with crap to do that I even took off—

thinking of somehow turning a t-shirt into a dry erase board to I can write down—

What a beautiful day out! Let's go—

what the hell I was doing to stay on task. It's that or get a Post-It note pad implanted on my left forearm. Which might hurt.

I want candy! I want candy!

Family room, plus her own bathroom. And having her here —

Now I want wine.

uniform, although they had to special order her one; apparently—

the entire month of September and half of October. Part of it was because I finaled in a writing contest and I—

is great. She totally pitches in and smells better than a foster cat, which makes Mr. SD very happy.

ride bikes!

had to finish editing the work in progress just in case the judge, an agent—

they don't get teeny-tiny recruits unless they—

from New York, asked for a full or partial of the MS. But, she did not (she made no requests) which is okay—

Squirrel!

are made of green plastic.

because I will be pitching my second place win at our URWA conference.




So once again I apologize for my lack of posting. Blame it on menopause! I'm going to.

And now I will tell you a love story.

My most favorite co-worker is Cleatus. I've written a number of stories about him, and he is a main character in Splitting The Difference, the short I have on Amazon. Cleatus was working at the barn when I started, some seven years ago. And despite what the ARA's will tell you, Cleatus enjoyed working. How do I know? A while ago he was on the D/L because of an abscessed hoof. Ro would bring him into the barn to soak his foot and then let him roam around the property and eat the grass and weeds. Our horses occasionally double as the landscaping crew. Anyway, Cleatus has been off for about a month, and Ro had him in the barn. She walked outside to get the mail, leaving the two people size doors open. Now, Ro's office has a people door going into the barn on one side, and a people door doing to the outside on another . She went out through the people door to the mailbox, and Cleatus walked through the people door into the office from the barn, executed a ninty-degree swivel in a very small space, then continued to sashay out the front door. Ro, standing at the mail box, was astonished as Cleatus calmly walked by her, heading the direction of downtown. He even jerked his chin at her as if to say, "Hey, sista, what's up?" as he moseyed on past.

Apparently, fed up with not being allowed out on the street for so long, he was heading downtown on his own to see what was shaking.

And anyone who tells you horses are strict vegetarians never saw Cleatus steal a cheeseburger from the hand of a carriage driver who was trying to be polite and hide his food while attempting to sell a ride.

I often times explain that the job is 50/50 between the horse and driver, but with Cleatus, it's more like 70/30, with Cleatus being the 70. In other words, given thumbs and a command of the English language, he could do the job solo.

His favorite treat was Oreo cookies and he would come when I called him, and follow me around like a dog. A dog that's looking for more Oreos.

He passed away last week. I will never again be able to look at Oreos without thinking of my sweet boy Cleatus.

Often Boring, But Rarely Dull

FAQs (Frequently Asked Questions)

"Is your job fun?"

"Do you need a special license to be a carriage driver?"

"Animal abuser! Why don't you get a real job?"

"Do you meet a lot of interesting people doing this?"

FRs (Frequent Replies)

"Is your job fun?"

Sometimes. The day Ro and I did this gig was fun.

But not always. For example, Tuesday night when it suddenly poured on us for twenty minutes straight, I would not describe it as fun. I would call it painful, awkward and moist. My customers, who were safely ensconced in a carriage with the top up during the downpour, called it fun. Of course they got to go home and change; I remained stuck working outside with a raging case of what we fondly call swamp ass.

"Do you need a special license to be a carriage driver?"

No. The requirements in Utah are as follows: you must be twenty-one and hold a valid Utah drivers license. We teach you everything else you need to know. However, I do believe you need a special license to drive this:

"Animal abuser! Why don't you get a real job?"


Here is a video of some horses who were running "free" in a pasture (out of the public eye, and under the control of only a few people)


One of our horses… no starvation or neglect here, plus hundreds of people see our horses Every. Single. Day.

"Do you meet a lot of interesting people doing this?"

I guess it all depends on your definition of interesting… This guy was hitch hiking around the country asking people what their American Dream was. He used to have a website, but it was shut down because he couldn't afford the hosting fees. I don't know why he hasn't gone with Blogger or another free blog site, but if you're on facebook, here is a link to his page.




This guy was not as interesting:

In fact we had to get Temple Square security to chase him away. But it does make for some lively conversation. And no one has a collection of photos from their work quite like I do.

Middle Of The Road

I got a call last week from the barn asking me to drive carriage in the Days of '47 Parade.

And now, a short break for some exposition, with a side of rant:

For those of you new to the Confessions of a Slave Driver blog, it would behoove you to understand that I hate, hate, HATE driving in parades. Why? Because they don't pay squat. Most of the time the best you can hope for is a mild case of heat stroke and all the candy that ends up by your feet after being pelted with it by miniature hooligans, AKA children. In the mean time I've gotten up at the crack of ass, driven eighteen miles at dawn to play hurry up and wait while the vehicles are readied/decorated. Then you rush over to the parade staging area where you stand around and wait until it's your turn to join the mêlée. After plodding for what seems like 200 miles at four miles an hour, if you're lucky, and two mph if you're not, you arrive at a massive cluster of disarray and pandemonium reminiscent of the Gladiatorial games in Rome only to have your occupants, who usually have no idea what they are supposed to do next, jump ship with little more than a "Have a happy day."

Yes, thank you and may your day be absolutely fantastic! As it is, I'm roasting, have to pee real bad, and I'm so hungry that the plump haunch of my horse's rear end is starting to make me salivate. So the 'happy' part so far is not materializing… right now I am just having a day.

In fact I dislike parades so much that the opening of my first novel, The Carriage Trade, begins with a frantic dash to a parade where the stress level goes from bad to DEFCON 5.

End Rant. Exposition continues:

Anyway, the Days of '47 Parade celebrates the arrival of the Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. I am not Mormon, so none of the festivities really applies to me. I have a personal prohibition about working on drinking and/or firework holidays such as New Year Eve, Independence Day, and, in our family at least, Easter. This prohibition also applies to Pioneer Day. Why do I avoid working on those days? Because I'm usually drinking, and blowing off fireworks. But not this time; this time I was bullied into participating by co-workers MBA and Ro. Both of them had agreed to drive. So after MBA pulled the friend card, I was force to capitulate.

MBA driving Tony

I requested to drive Rex because I've driven him in parades before and he's solid as a rock. Plus co-worker Bobbie asked to join me on the box as she had never driven carriage in a parade before. So while Ro, driving Tom in front of us, and MBA, driving Tony behind us, had to serpentine the entire route, thus effectively walking twice as far as Rex did, we went straight down the middle of the road. Which probably looked boring, but at least we didn't come off as intoxicated with the swerving back and forth the whole way. Both Ro and MBA claimed to be a little queasy upon completion.

Ro driving Tom (you just cant see him)

At least the parade was uneventful for us.

For the Royalty Float, which was enveloped in smoke spewing from the motor compartment, not so much. But we went out to lunch at the Red Iguana* after, so it turned out to be a good day after all.

Except maybe for this horse who either cannot read or else is just a scofflaw when it comes to legal parking.

*The Red Iguana is a fabulous Mexican restaurant. Actually, there are two, RI1 and RI2. Red Iguana 1 was featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives so it's always packed. Red Iguana 2 is a "known only to the locals" annex around the corner from RI1. The food is outstanding.

Walking The Course

I have always loved horses, and history. Combining the two, I became a carriage driver. As a carriage driver, I give historical tours. Even when I'm not driving carriage, I give historical tours. Ask my family; I'm sure it annoys them.

So when I was informed by a co-worker that the Utah Heritage Foundation would be giving tours of the buildings at Exchange Place I jumped at the opportunity to go, even if it meant operating the rest of the day on only four hours of sleep.

I met my friend and fellow carriage driver, MBA, downtown and we proceeded to pester the guides with obscure questions throughout the tour. The buildings are beautiful, and while the architecture is mirrored in the twin buildings, they are fraternal rather than identical. I know this because the first question I asked, before the tour even began, was "Why is there a buffalo head on the Newhouse building but not on the Boston building?"

The answer was, "I have no idea."

Obviously we were off to a successful start. But after that the tour was wonderful, except for the part where MBA tried to get me to look down the stairwell from the 11th floor.

Side note: I do not like heights. I'm quite content to stay no higher than the 3rd floor at a hotel. Taking those glass elevators makes me clench my fists and stop breathing. The idea of going on that glass bottom walk way that goes out over the Grand Canyon…well, we're not even going to talk about the puckering that ignites. But MBA took a Zipline through a rainforest, because people convinced her it would be cool. I would have to be drunk to the point of unconsciousness to do that, and still I'd prefer hacking my way across land with a machete, fending off poop slinging monkeys and millipedes the size of my arm, to zooming across the sky wearing an epic-wedgie inducing thong on a cable engineered and installed by people with remedial education.

In other words, it squicks me out.

Anyway, back on topic; the tour was informative and now if I take people down Main Street as far as the 400 South block, I can talk about the Newhouse, Boston, and Exchange Club buildings with some degree of accuracy.

And while I cannot tell you why there is a buffalo head on the Newhouse building I can tell you why there are lion heads on both: it was a symbol of industry.

The Newhouse Building:

The beautiful marble stairs in the Newhouse building. Utah has no native marble, so this was imported from Georgia. The marble is only on the first level because Samuel Newhouse ran out of money. But at least the lobby looks nice!

The stairs in the Boston building were tile and terrazzo.

I'm okay with looking UP a stairwell, but declined when invited to take the same photo looking down.

The lion was a symbol for industry. Both buildings have this detail around the top.

The style of the buildings are the same but some of the decorative details differ.

The building has a mail chute that runs the height of the building. All the mail ends up in this post box at the bottom. I forgot to inquire if it is still in use.























The Exchange Club was like a men's club/gym for the employees of the stock and banking businesses.

Once More, With Feeling

Yes, slacker. That's me.

The Christmas Carriage season went well, with the exception of a couple of nights with a lot of snow. If people paying for a totally frivolous form of entertainment can be used as an economic indicator, then things are picking up.

It's a strange occupation I have; some nights I'm so bored, cold, sore or crabby it's all I can do to not growl at the people in my carriage. Other nights we have front row seats to "Weird Shit Window On The World."

For example: I was on a ride passing North Gate and I noticed two guys unloading one of the ugliest loveseats I've ever seen out of the back of a pickup. This caught my attention only because the North Gate of Temple Square is not a typical place to unload furniture. Then they unloaded what looked to be the base of a motorized scooter. Now, being that we travel at a whopping four miles per hour, we get to see a lot of stuff, and much of it, I don’t give a second thought to. This was one of those instances, until Carriage driver Kar later mentioned the motorized loveseat zipping down the road at warp speed.




(Photos courtesy of Carriage Driver Kar)

Ok, it was warp speed for a couch. They usually don’t go from 0-7 in two minutes. They usually go from 0 to 0. At least all the ones I've ever owned.

Then, of course, there was the Barking Dog From Hell experience. A bunch of us were stopped at the light on North Temple and Main street, with traffic stack up like pre-teens waiting for the doors to open at a general admission seating Justin Bieber concert. A little dog in a car two lanes over noticed the horses and started barking, barking, barking. The owners, as usual with annoying dogs that bark continuously, thought it was cute, so they rolled down their windows. enabling the rest of us captured in traffic to enjoy the festive sounds of Sir Barksalot.

"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark."
Rest; repeat.

This continued forever.

The stoplight, by the way, for whatever reason, was not functioning properly, so we sat there for a while, and finally I yelled to the barking dog people, "Doesn’t he know any other songs?"

They looked confused.

So I demonstrated for them by barking "Jingle Bells." Behind me, Crazy Shelley joined in. We sang one chorus, then we changed to a Salsa beat. Shelley sang the words this time, and I barked in appropriate places.

At long last the light changed. But not before we taught that dog a new song.

Absent Friends, Empty Lockers

A blog doesn’t write itself, but there are times I wish it would. This is one of them.

Several weeks ago, we lost a driver. His name was Don, and he'd been with us for a couple of years. He was brought into our employment by his wife, Audrey, who also drives. Previously the employees we'd had named "Don" had all been as dumb as a box of rocks. So much so that at one point we imposed a moratorium on hiring men named "Don", just because the quality of Dons we'd experienced had been so incredibly subpar.

This Don was the exception to that rule.

Don was a quiet man, quick with a funny quip, there to assist if you needed help, and always willing to pitch in where needed. He had a gentle hand with the horses, and took exceptional care with his favorite co-worker, Libby. We were shocked by his unexpected passing of a heart attack, and his absence has left a hole in our small tribe.

And we not only lost Don, but Audrey has decided to be taken off the schedule for the time being. We're patient people; we know she’ll be back when she feels the time is right. And we'll welcome her with open arms when she returns.

Every once in a while I find myself saying, "Damn it, Don."

It's a reaction to his not being there. He wasn't there when I needed a roll of electrical tape to wrap my shafts with. He was tall, and wasn't there to help those of us like myself who are vertically challenged and need stuff from high places. He wasn't there when we were trying to figure out the best person to send to South Gate to place our traffic cones prior to the mayhem we knew Black Friday would be. He wasn't there when I had to change the time on my very confusing watch from Daylight-Savings-Time to Not-Daylight-Savings-Time. His turquoise truck wasn't parked in its usual spot in front of the barn when I turned the corner yesterday.

But I'll tell you where he was; He was with us when we toasted him Friday night at Dees for breakfast. He was there when we discussed how he took care of our carriage batteries. He was there when we talked about the person who would be driving Libby, wanting to make sure she was paired with a co-worker that would love her like he did. He was at South Gate with us last night when we talked about his funeral service, the moving music that reduced the most stoic of our clan to tears, and his gravesite up next to the fence in the cemetery with a great view. And he's there every time we look at the sign-up calendar for December: He was looking forward to the Christmas carriage driving season, and his signature is on every single day from November 26 to December 31. Ro couldn’t bring herself to scratch it out, so when they make up the schedule, they just work around it. And it's appropriate, because he's still with us in spirit, hanging around the carriage barn, just like he did every week from Tuesday through Saturday. And his headstone sits in the office, custom designed by the last trainee he had, waiting for spring to be set on his grave. By the time they set it, it will have acquired that special "horsey" smell we all love.

The day after Don's funeral, I ran into one of his step daughters; She thanked me again for everything the carriage company had done. For the horse drawn hearse that took Don from the church to the cemetery. For the drivers that showed up in our finest carriage driving attire. For our support in this trying time.

I replied that we hadn't done anything special. Don was part of our family too.

And damn it, we miss him.

These Boots Are Make For Walkin' (In Snow)

One of the most important pieces of equipment I have for winter carriage driving are my boots. Working in winter without the proper footwear is, simply put, insane. Because, for me, if I'm warm and dry I can go for hours; If not, I'm screwed. The winter weather in Utah comes in varying degrees of moderately cool, cold, and cold & wet. Cool and cold don’t need much preparation for me. My winter boots are not the stylish type one could pick up at a regular shoe store. Mine are the heavy duty kind you buy at places like Sportsman's Warehouse or Cabela's. In other words, boots heavy enough to use as a weapon.

Not all boots are carriage driving ready. Unlike some winter activities that allow the participant to walk, thus helping circulate blood flow, we do a lot of either sitting or standing around, sometimes in several inches of snow. I have two metal screws in each of my feet due to bunion surgery several years ago, so cold transference happens at a faster rate for my feet then to other, non-metal infused folk. So I take my footwear seriously.

It helps to start with a good brand of boots. I've used Coleman, Sorel and Ranger. The Sorel boots were warm but because I used a charcoal foot warmer, the sole melted, so I do not find them durable. I like the Ranger boots the best because they have removable liners that can be dried separate from the main part of the boot, thus expediting the process. Plus I have yet to melt the bottoms. However, even though the Ranger boots as labeled "Water Proof", they are not, in my experience, 100% waterproof. They are more like "Water resistant." And in my field water resistant doesn't cut it.

First I check my boots for any damage. If I have any separation issues, cuts, or melted spots I use Shoe Goo.
I "repaired" the soles of the melted Sorel boots with Shoe Goo, but I don’t wear them for work because the Shoe Goo soles don’t work as well as an insulator as the original rubber plus there is no longer any tread on them and that makes them slippery to walk in. I keep them at home and wear them when shoveling the driveway.



Next, I remove the liners and laces because they just get in the way. Then I brush off any dirt/shavings/manure still clinging from the last time I wore them.

Then to the suede/leather I apply a product called "Sno-Seal." It is a beeswax based water proofing ointment-like substance that comes in a jar. It works best if the boots are warm because it helps melt the product deep into the leather/suede.


After I apply the Sno-Seal, I let the boots dry for a while, then I apply Kiwi Camp Dry to any fabric areas of the boot.
It is a silicone spray water proofing agent. I usually apply two coats, just to be sure. Then I let then whole thing cure for a day or two and test it under running water.

Finally, I have a warm water-proof pair of boots I can use five nights a week night for the six weeks of Christmas carriage driving, so my feet stay warm and dry.

Spaghetti Western... Kind Of

I've been trying and trying to edit a video we made about two weeks ago at the barn. Nothing subversive, mind you, I just wanted to put some text over the video. And… for whatever reason, my editing software keeps freezing up. Maybe because it's the crap that came with the computer, who knows. Anyway, since it's been a while and I cannot seem to get this POS program to do what I want it to, here for your viewing pleasure is a regular day at the barn. With apple spaghetti.


(MBA has a food dehydrator. To make dehydrated apples she needs to peel the skin and core the centers. She decided that instead of throwing them out to bring them into the barn and sharing with her co-workers. That is what Ro is handing out to the horses.)

The 95%ers

Our success rate for trainees is low- only 5% of the people we bring in to train actually continue as an employee for at least six months. Even though we "pass off" a driver after 4-8 nights out, once they've shown proficiency at the job, we still bitch at them continuously correct bad habits when we see then doing something which is either not sanctioned or unsafe. I tell my trainees that I do it to make them a better driver. After all, they go out with a different individual each night, and while we will occasionally compare notes, there is no set training format. So somewhere down the line we might have forgotten to tell them what to do if their wedding party is late (wait time is charged at $20 for every 15 minutes), what to do when they damage a car and the owner isn't around (leave a card), or which hotel canopies they are not allowed to go under (the Hilton).

As a trainer I can never tell if, once trained, a driver will stick around long enough to be considered an "success." As Crazy Shelley put it, it's not worth the brain space to remember someone's name if they're not going to be around very long. We go through so many people that the few brain cells that I haven't nullified with copious amounts of alcohol cannot manage to keep all the names straight. I have much better luck remembering the names of the dogs (but not their owners) I encounter up in Memory Grove or going for walks that pass us at South Gate (Juno the Border Collie, Etienne the Saint Bernard, Jack the Pug puppy and Lola the miniature Australian Shepherd).

There are candidates that I remember because of their quirky behavior or outright stupidity, but being that this is a public forum I won't mention names. I don't relish a law suit because I call someone stupid and it becomes a matter of public record. But I will say that there is a sector that I pity because while I as a human can recognize that an individual is useless and will soon be gone, either through trial and error error error or attrition, half of our workforce never knows what they will come up against next or how long they must endure them.

And that would be the horses.

Whether it's a heavy hand at the bit, commands that come out as either a squeak or a roar, or continuous flapping of the lines as an indication to pick up speed, our training horses (Cleatus, Tony, Charlie, Rex) go the distance when it comes to babysitting. For example, Cleatus, when asked to make a right turn on the way out to South Gate at a street that we normally do not turn right at, will stop, turn his big head to eyeball the driver, and wait for the trainee to change their mind and go straight. It is his way of correcting them. He is patient (more so than I will ever be) and forgiving when faced with an idiot. I've told many people that Cleatus, if he had thumbs and spoke English, would render my job obsolete.

This occupation is one where attention to detail is of the utmost importance. It's the difference between having a successful evening or a nightmare in progress. Safety is our number one concern, for the horse, the passengers, and the driver.

Note the order in which I placed those.

So if a trainee isn’t continuously watching the flow of traffic, getting over to the right out of the way of vehicles, properly holding the correct kind of lead rope, or leave their hooked up horse unattended in the barn lot while they go and get the one thing they forgot to put on their carriage before they left the barn, it's an issue. So when I see an issue, I’ll call the new driver on it, because it'll be that one time that I don’t which will lead to bad habits and sloppy safety. So if I bitch correct them, it's for their own benefit.

And if I happen to kick them off of the box and into the path of the oncoming Trax Train, it's for the horses benefit.

The Pirate Gig!

Last April Ro got a call from Christus St Joseph Villa, a senior living center in Salt Lake City. August of 2009 we hauled Charlie Horse and a carriage over and worked their Pirate themed Family Day. We had a blast. Prior to last year, "The Boys", also known as Hardrock and Coco, were the employees responsible for this job and they approached it with their normal laissez-faire attitude. In other words, they never dressed up for the part. But because Ro and I did, the lady in charge of the event fell in love with us.

Anyway, last April Ro got the call, "Would the carriage company please reserve August 21 for St Jo and could Ro and Slave Driver be the employees who work the event?" Because the Pirate theme was so popular last year that they were thinking that they'd do it again, but only if Ro and I were coming, otherwise they'd go with a different theme.

Thank god, because if it'd been a Luau, our choice of costume would have been a 'Hula Girl' or the 'Roasting Pig'. Neither of us can pull off 'Hula Girl', at least not without making everyone sick.

Well, Ro responded, "Hell YES we'd be there!" And then she called and had me circle the date in big red marker in my appointment book. And then she reminded me several times over the course of the summer. And when I signed up to work on that night because I forgot she erased my name and reminded me again that we were doing what we lovingly call "The Pirate Gig."

This year St Jo had a surprise waiting for us, a big ass Pirate Ship stationed at the entrance… Charlie is just about the most "street broke" horse you'd ever see, but I still asked Ro to jump down and walk next to him while we passed it. Charlie has to work with frail and old, and getting him jacked up right before we stick frail and old into the carriage is not a great idea. But he passed it with only a glance, and was his usual funny yet professional self.

Some of the residents don't want to ride, but they do want to see Charlie.(Obviously, Ro and I play second fiddle to Charlie. Just like downtown, nobody gives a crap about the driver, it's all about the horse…) So, their assistants will wheel them right up under his nose. Charlie is great with both kids and people in wheelchairs. The chair doesn’t bother him a bit, and he drops his head so they can cuddle with him. We have horses at South Gate who, if given the opportunity, will use a human as a scratching post, rubbing their big head all over them. But Charlie never does that, which is good, because a horse can head toss a child like a Hacky-sack.

We integrated a few new features to both Charlie and the carriage this year. On the carriage, we added a big flag complete with wire so it's continuously waving (thank you, MBA, for the suggestion) and little flags on the back. The parrot we got for Ro ended up on the carriage dash, as it wouldn't exactly sit on her shoulder without looking like a prop in a Monty Python sketch.

I added a beard and moustache to my costume, to enhance the air of scallywaggery to my pirate carriage pilot character, and Charlie got a hat with a red plume and a colorful little hair extension with carrots on the end. Sorry, but pony beads in a horse's mane is too much of a pun.

Anyway, I know the real reason you tuned in is to see the photos. So here they are:

How To Tack Up Your Draft Horse For The Vertically Challenged:

1) Ask to work with the tallest damn horse in the herd.

2) Get your horse's headstall.

3) Beg your horse to "Please, please, please, drop your head."

















4) When the begging and pleading fail, get a ladder.

















5) Climb up the ladder, risking a neck-breaking incident, and apply bridle.










And, of course, right about that time your horse will drop his head for you.

A Carriage Driver's Work Is Never Done:

Educating The Equus-Ignorant, One Person At A Time.

"A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it."

—The Character of "K" from Men In Black.

Last week I took two photos of Charlie Horse's legs and uploaded them to facebook. This is what they looked like, accompanied by the captions:

"Ooooh, is your horse's leg broken?"








"Yes, see? Now the other one is broken."

I was joking. Mocking people who walk up and tell me that my co-worker has a broken leg. It's amusing at best and irritating at worse. However, it's not nearly as annoying as people who feel compelled to tell me about the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer feeds Rusty the carriage horse Beef-a-Roni. Because really, people, that shit never gets old.

( Insert eyeroll here —> )

But I digress…

On Saturday evening I noticed a drum-circle type young man skulking around the street side of Kar's carriage. She went around, found him taking cell phone photos of Bart's rear leg, and asked if she could help him. He immediately launched into an angry diatribe about documenting the fact that the poor wretch couldn't even put weight on his leg he was in such bad shape.

Kar stood in front of him, bent one knee and asked, "You mean because he's standing like this?"

"Yes!"

"He's resting that leg, just like I am."

(Had it been me I would have added "you dumbass" at the end of the sentence, but Kar is way nicer than I am.)

Then Kar asked him if he just wanted to make assumptions, or would he like to be informed. He actually chose information, and by the time they were done conversing, he came away with a new understanding of equine physiology.

Kar was also admonished to "Free your horse, you bitch!" while walking Bart on Main Street, which would be a little awkward being that we're smack dab in the middle of downtown.

Oh well, one moron at a time, I guess.

Bits And Pieces

We had the honor of taking Arnold Friberg to his final resting place. He was a renowned artist and a member of the LDS church that lived and worked right here in Salt Lake City. I was not there to take photos, but you can learn all about it and watch video of Jim and Charlie here. On a side note, Jim is famous in our stable for, um, letting his "pride" show so to speak… which he did all during the funeral.

I don’t know, maybe it's a horses way of showing respect.

Speaking of walking around with your dingle hanging out; The horse named Kid, who had a long and illustrious career as a carriage horse and retired last year to northern Utah with Wease passed on last week after a valiant fight with, um, not being able to put his junk away. I'm sure there was something else going on there, but during a short, terse conversation with Wease, that's what I took away from the conversation. So, Kid has shucked his mortal coil and is probably posing for Arnold Friberg right now. Hopefully Arnold can slap some pretty on him, because Kid was one fugly looking horse.

How do you know when a horse is tall? You can't tell with Ro & I we're kinda shrimpy, but when Kar has to stand on a wagonette to hose Cisco down, you know he's tall, because Kar's up there just shy of six foot.

And that's about it unless you want to hear about my new cell phone (EVO, and it's way bigger than my last phone) or my new netbook (Acer, and it's half the size of my laptop) or how it's been as hot as the surface of the sun out here. Or how we were mentioned in an article about the bike riding ice cream vendors (except they called us horse carriage riders instead of horse carriage drivers.)

I'll be doing a contest next week. There are no prizes, just glory. The only way to study is to run through the blog and look at the pictures of our horses.

Kick Me...

Working as I do for a carriage company there are not a whole lot of perks. The hours are long, and those long hours are usually hot, cold or wet. You can't use the john unless you wrangle another carriage company employee into holding your horse for you while you disappear into Temple Square for a stolen moment of relief in the heated/air-conditioned comfort of the Visitor's Center. And you pack a lunch or brave the yuckyness that is the Carl's Jr's drive thru, because decent restaurants just don't see a need to add "Carriage Parking" in their lots. However, the one perk I do have, the one that makes me shudder at the thought of looking for a "real" job (ie one with actual schedules) is the benefit of being able to pick and choose the days on which I do work.

This is my benefit package. It's the reason why others were jealous because I traveled to Chicago last August for two weeks, returned home for four days, then took off camping for another week. And while it tends to drive Ro insane, ("Who the hell am I supposed to get to cover this weird wedding? It's goofy, and I need you to drive it!") She cannot complain over much because she also takes off whenever the spirit moves her.

Which bring us to this: I do not sign up to work holidays that involve drinking and/or fireworks.

Why?

Because on those days I usually find myself drinking and blowing off fireworks, that's why.

However, this past Friday I conceded to work the Riverton Fourth Of July (but held on the Second of July) Parade. I assumed it would be easy, fast, and painless. Three words I adore.

What I got was what I always get: long, tedious and so-not-worth-it. I won’t go into all the details, because the blog will only spiral down into a rant, which is not unusual, however I have given Ro permission to beat me senseless the next time I agree to drive in a parade. And after she has beaten me into a heap, I've encouraged her to then give several swift kicks, lest I ever forget and agree to work a parade again.

Anyway, although our parade ended much better than some others did, here are some observations regarding it:

I drove the Grand Marshall, Cleatus Hamilton, and his lovely wife Sharon. Cleatus is a relation to the carriage company owners, and my favorite horse Cletus is name for Grand Marshall Cleatus. They even got to meet, although I don't think either one was too impressed with the other.

And while Cleatus (the human one) and Sharon are nice, they are getting up there in age, so when they realized the quantity of candy they would be required to toss to the crowd they blanched a bit. And I must admit that for a little while there the begging from the sidelines was so intense I felt like I was roaming the streets of Calcutta with a pocket full of coins. So I assisted, tossing taffy high into the air and watching it bean bystanders on the noggin.

Okay, I admit, that part was fun. Pelting people with candy left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Giddy, even.

Plus it gave me plenty of ammunition to use when children ran into the street and tossed "poppers" at Rex's hooves. I "gave" those kids extra candy. At a high rate of speed. Aimed at their heads.

Oddly enough, they thanked me for it.

Silly people.

Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few photos from the Riverton Parade.

And while you enjoy them, I'm going to get a big ass glass of wine and shoot bottle rockets disguised as Tootsie-Rolls at the neighbor's kids.




The Grand Marshall sign. It's a good thing I drove Rex, if I'd driven Cleatus he would have been confused by all the people lining the parade route shouting out his name.



Human Cleatus with his wife Sharon.



The Cleatuses meet.




Slave Driver and Rex.



Hardrock and Cleatus: they brought up the rear.




Parade veteran Scooter,(driving Tony) who for reasons I cannot fathom, loves to drive parades.



Scooter again.





Scooter and I were at the front of the parade, Hardrock at the end. We had to sit and wait for it to be ove to get back to the horse trailers. I spent five hours of my life working this parade, none of which I will ever get back.