DAY 2: I Suck!

I’ve never been told that I suck by a boss. Never. Not once. Not even on the day that I dumped the narcotics all over the ground in the pharmacy, or the day that I tripped over the leg of the fork lift and went sliding through the warehouse on my hands and face. It’s not to say that they didn’t want to say that on occasion, or that I was always that best one of the job, it’s just that none of them were ever close enough to me personally to tell say that I sucked at something to my face.

Day 2 on the job here, I got told just that.

You see, I was glad for day 2. I had been looking forward to day 2. The reason: I was not going to be on the tractor and further embarrassing myself. I was going to Moses Lake with my children, and some good friends, to get pigs from an auction for the boys’ 4-H project. If any of you have read my previous posts you will not that you did not see the word SHEEP in here. No, you didn’t. And you won’t.
The day was sunny and bright, and I knew that it would only be better the further we got into the middle of Washington state. The only problem was that the Boss’s (I like capitalizing his name. The Boss, The Farmer, DH, Husband, etc.) other help, aka his dad, was away for the day as well, leaving the Boss without any one to help him move or run for parts. However, there was nothing I could do about that. I had informed the Boss of this scheduling problem before he hired me, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

So, off we go, with one excited young man, one grudging and complaining young man who didn’t think it was fair that he should have to get out of bed for his pig, and one missing man. One of my sons had another commitment and since that commitment was school, and future career, related, he was given a hall pass with the promise that we - the pig purchasers - would pick him out a nice, cute, orange pig. I would not tell you that part, but it matters later.

8:00 A.M. with lunches made, Farmer off, the kid with the hall pass gone, the two older boys in truck to get pigs, and coffee in hand, we were all of the road.

I am ready, until one of the two older boys who was awakened to purchase his pig starts complaining right out of the shoot that it is not fair that he has to get up on his day off and pick out his pig when I am going to pick out a pig for the kid on the school field trip.

Now, as most of you know, I’m a fairly nice mom. Even my kids have accidentally alluded to that on occasion. But, as they know all too well, there are three things that I do not allow: bitching, complaining, and not taking responsibility for your self – especially when it comes to something you, yourself, asked to do. Therefore, we are not yet 100 feet from the driveway when I just about opened the door and booted his non-coffee drinking butt out and said no pig for you! Instead, I rolled my eyes and talked happily with the other one.

One thing I have noticed with the varying ages of my children; maturity comes with drinking coffee. It’s really that simple. Those who drink coffee in the morning, know that the only time their lips should he parted around the others drinking coffee is when they themselves have a sip betwixt the cup and the lip. This young man had yet to take up the habit, and therefore, had yet to learn the rule, so I told him simply to zip it. Don’t start. We had a long way to go. Wisely, he did.

However, we ended up just the other side of Steptoe Butte (about 10 miles from home) when the first question popped out from the backseat.

“How long ‘till we get there?”

“About 2 hours,” I say, and then quickly add to avoid any finger pointing if I was wrong about the exact minute of our arrival. “Maybe a little more.”

“What?” the non-coffee drinker exclaimed. “You never said we were going that far! God, this isn’t fair!”

Now, Dear Reader, I could bore you with that conversation for a long time, but I don’t need to. Most of you have kids, so I think you can use your imagination on how I responded. The day I had been so looking forward too, was already on the verge of being ruined.

We made it just to the other side of the town of Steptoe before the question was asked again. I seriously wished I wore a baseball cap like other people so I would have something to lean over the back of the seat and smack him on the head with!

In addition that that, the coffee-drinking son had decided that since he was now the driver, and I stupidly applied the rule years ago that the driver got to pick the music, that he would put some rap on to get us revved up for the morning. Let me tell you, “Hell no! Double Hell no! No way! No how. Not for 2 more hours!”

So, still not wanting to part my mouth for more than my sip of coffee, I simply reach forward and pull the plug on his iPod/Phone/Thingy to stop the madness! Now, Dear Reader, just so you know, I’ve done this before. Many times. It’s kind of a game with us. He puts crap on, and I take it off, until we find a compromise – which we usually do.

“Put it back on,” he says sternly.

“No way,” I say.

“Do it,” he says again.

“Not on your life.”

I can see a smile cross his lips and I am just about to plug it back in and start pushing buttons through the worst of his music to get to something I can stand, while still allowing him to have his music, since I did instill that stupid rule, when the non-coffee drinker pops his head through the seats like Donkey in the movie Shrek and decides to defend his brother by throwing the rule in my face.

“You said the driver picks the music,” he said, crappily.

“Not this time,” I say, still smiling over at the driver.

“But that’s not fair,” he sneers. “You said. You made the rule and you can’t just break it when it fits your needs.”

By this time my coffee is gone, and so is my patience. I turn around and say, “That’s enough.”

“But!”

“Enough!”

“No,” he said. “You made the rule, now you have to live by it.”

“I don’t have to live by anything. This is my car.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “You make us live by your rules, so you have to too.”

Never in my life have I had a kid continue to argue with me that didn’t know when to quit. Usually it simply takes a stare down, or a change in my tone, or something that subtle to let the child know that they have crossed the line from funny into disrespectful. This child had apparently not learned when that line was crossed. It took me practically leaning over the backseat and changing my voice into Gandalf the Gray in order for him to get the point.

“Your voice shall not pass over this seat again!”

That worked again for a while, right up until we reached Sprague, which is about 45 minutes away. This kid clearly wanted a fight.

“So,” he said. “Is this Moses Lake?”

I wasn’t even going to answer. You see, there is another rule that I have in my life, and my kids – especially the non-coffee drinkers – know it all too well. If you ask a question and I don’t answer it, you know that it was a stupid question. While in school there may not be stupid questions, between children and parents there are. And they are usually asked just to piss a parent off. And boy howdy, had he finally succeeded. I was like Papa Smurf yelling at his smurfings by that point!

“HAS IT BEEN TWO HOURS YET!!!!!!!!!!”

By the time we reached the first rest area five miles out of Sprague I got the first text from the Boss. No one was there to help him and he needed help.

Hmmm…let me see…I’ll just drop the kids here, turn around real quick and get right on that. Stupid question, so therefore, no answer.

To make a long day, short, I will say that we got to Moses Lake and it was warm! That was the best part. The worst part: the non-coffee drinker said, “Why should we have to pick out my brother’s pig. You said we all had to come. I had to come, even though it was my day to sleep in, so I don’t think we should have to help him at all.”

Not wanting anyone from whom I was purchasing a pig to think that I might be abusive in anyway, I walked off again mumbling something about spoiled rotten, ungrateful, unhelpful, non-coffee drinking little…. And wondering if these people, who were rednecks like myself, were serving alcohol at this little shindig. No such luck.

Let’s just move on to say that we purchased the pigs and, aside from the warmth, that was the only other highlight of my day. On the way back home, pigs in pick-up, both kids finally laughing because those pigs were so damn cute they could put anyone in a good mood, the texts start coming in from the boss again. Thankfully, I was back by Steptoe Butte when I got the first text.

I’m ready to move, and I’m sitting here waiting.

Timing is everything.

Great, I text back, feeling pretty darn smug at the fact that I could be there for him when he needed me. I’ll drop the pigs and the kids at the barn, flip up the OVERSIZED load on the truck, and be off to help you in two shakes of a…

No…no sheep, or lamb, references. I was barely surviving as it was. By the time I booted the kids and pigs out at the barn, the texts were coming in with exclamation points.

I went ahead and moved the truck while I waited for someone to get here, and now it’s stuck. Bring a chain and some fuel, ‘cuz I’m going to need some soon too, because no one has been here to bring me that either.

No problem, I text.

I’m just so darn proud that I pulled into the driveway when I did. If this had happened an hour ago, I would have had to pull over on the side of the road in order to safely answer the litany of texts I would be getting about abandoning him during Spring Work. (Which, I do want to say I really, really did feel bad about. Anyone married to a farmer feels bad about that.)

So, I proudly find the chain and he fuel, and drive it all out to the field. Half way out I get more texts. Can someone please tell me why I have a cell phone? These texts are from the kids at the barn. The pigs are too small, they keep hopping through the fence and running all over the road.

Okay, now I’m just laughing. I’m laughing so hard I am putting other drivers in danger. I can just picture them; my two oldest boys, and my daughter who is now there too, whooping and hollering and chasing pigs all over the gravel road. I am still laughing, while their freaked out, exclamation point texts keep beeping in, and I’m hauling-ass in this loud rattling service truck to the Boss who is counting seconds, so I only have time to text back two words.

Handle it!

Fast-forward to the boss who is still waiting, and now you will understand why it is that I suck! Not because the pigs or out and I wasn’t there, or because everyone in the world seems to need my help because they – pardon my French – need to take the tit out of the mouth for a change - but because I have to drive the stuck water truck out of the mud bog that it is slurped down in while being pulled out by the Rogator, which for those of you that don’t know, is a sprayer that is so tall that it looks like an Autobot on steroids.

I get in, and the Boss says to push the brake off and turn the wheels so that we end up back on the road. I push the square deeley-bob brake-thingy and listen for the hiss that indicates the brakes are off, then I turn the wheels. This maneuver in my mind is akin to parallel parking, if you can imagine that. Turn the wheel to the right, and the bum of your water truck will move to the right as well. Simple, right? I am glad that I am here to help. Me, with my great insight into backing up.

So I turn, and he pulls, and pulls and pulls, and my bum moves the other way, further into the mud and possibly – no certainly – a foot deeper. I see the Roagator stop, the Boss get out, and slam down the stairs, so I climb out to meet him.

“Did you take the brake off?” he asks.
He’s still being patient, but I can see that his patience is going to have it’s limits and all I can feel is the blonde hair standing out like a sore thumb on my head.

“Yeah,” I say, pointing up to the square deeley-bob brake-thingy.

“Well, it’s on,” he says.

“Well, I pushed it,” I say shortly. “It hissed.”

“Try again,” he says, stomping back to the Rogator.

I got back in, slammed my hand into the square thing, and gave the signal to move. We do, I turn, and again we go the wrong way. The Boss doesn’t even give it another try. He gets out, and slams the door with that look I am all too familiar with. The one that says, Do I have to do everything myself!

I get out, recalling my first days on jobs elsewhere, knowing that I need to keep my mouth shut and listen, and he has me come stand by him so that I can get a better view of the trouble I have been causing. I walk over to him, careful to keep a safe employee distance and nod my head. Yep, the Boss is right, the truck is not going the right direction.

“What do I need to do?” I ask him.

“Your in the mud,” he says, pointing at the truck. “I am pulling you backwards. You need to turn the opposite direction that you are.”

“Oh,” I say.

Yeah, like I should just know that. That, I want to tell him, comes from being a boy and spending most of your high school career purposefully stuck in the mud with other boys. Girls don’t do that. We just don’t. We are not that…Well, anyway…

Trying to lighten the mood, I accidentally, for a moment, slip back into being his wife. This is more dangerous for me than him because if I have to look at him as my husband and he is still looking at me as an employee, and he is mean – or even just honest with me - things are going to be bad at home tonight. Real bad. I won’t forgive him. He knows that, and so do I, but I’m tired, and after having the non-coffee drinker picking on me all day, I stupidly reach out for a little comfort.

“I suck, don’t I?” I ask pitifully.

“Yeah,” he says, uncrossing his arms and walking away. “You do.”

Let’s just leave it there for the day…and hope that Day 3 is better.