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.

A Spontaneous Weekend Adventure...Warwick Style.

            Warwick weekend adventures always start out the same. The curtain draws away on two people staring each other down across the kitchen table. There are 48 hours tick, tick, ticking away on the clock on the stove, no plan, and an overly stimulated six year-old boy staring desperately up at his parents. The boy has a look in his eye that clearly states that he’s about damn ready to take the lead in this.

            One of the parents speaks.

            “What do you want to do?”

            “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

            The boy waits, a bead of sweat falling over his eyebrow.

            “I asked you first,” the husband says.

            “But, I decided last time.”

            “Either way. I asked you first.”

            An audible sigh is breathed just three feet up from the floor. The boy grabs a grapefruit, a cutting board and a small knife. He walks over to the table and melts into the chair. School is over. His brothers and sister, all older and more independent, have already started their week-end plans and here he sits. Again. He decides to dig in to the fruit to wait them out. This scene is familiar to him. It is just like the last time his parents tried to plan a spontaneous adventure.

           My husband and I have been together for years. These mini-adventures are not new to us. Nor is our inability to plan them together. This weekend, along with two other weekends during the year, holds major significance to us. No it’s not Memorial Day, nor is it our anniversary, or our child’s birthday. It is simply the last weekend before Spring Work. I say that with a capital S and P because Spring Work is the beginning of our busiest time of the year on the farm, and it is also the last opportunity that we have to be spontaneous for a very, very, very long time.

            Therefore, we wanted to get started planning straight away. During the week prior we mentioned it in passing – but not yet in front of the child.

            “Any ideas, dear?” I ask.

            “Camping?” He offers tentatively.

            “Sure. Maybe you should check the weather.”

            “I did. It looks okay so far.”

            “Great.”

            By Thursday, I realize that my husband has been thinking about this a great deal because he has decided to come into lunch and address the subject head on.

            “We need a plan.”  

            “I thought we were camping.”

            “Oh yeah. Well, of course, but where? I mean the weather’s not looking good.”

            “I thought you checked that.”

            “I did.”

            “You said it looked fine.”

            “It did, here. But it’s not so great in the mountains.”

            “We’re camping in the mountains?”

            “Well, unless you want to camp in Lewiston, but I know you hate camping in the city, so I just assumed that was out.”

            “Well, I do hate that.”

            He waits, tossing the ball of suggestion in my court.

            “How about south?” I smile.  

            “That’s Lewiston,” he clarifies.

            I’m pretty sure he knows what I mean. I meant even further south. I let it go.

            “Well, Lewiston is fine with me if that’s where you want to go,” I concede.

            “I told you to decide,” he smiled.  

            “But I decided last time.”

            Lunch is OVER!

            By Friday at 1230 PM, lunch has been eaten in silence, and we both know that we have a very big problem. No longer can we decide separately on this issue. We have to find a way to gel these plans together between the two of us, and ASAP.  The school bus will be here anytime and our son will be fired up and wanting to know when we are leaving and where we are going even before he even hits the front step.

            “How about Seattle,” my dear husband quickly says. “We can get a hotel, and we could go to dinner at The Crab Pot. We could get fish and bring it home.”

            At this point I’m counting the words he has just spewed out. He’s added like 25 words to this conversation, so I know this suggestion is now a subject of serious consideration.

            “Seattle’s good,” I say. “But it will be a quick trip. You know how you hate long car rides.”

            “Oh, I’m thinking of leaving tonight,” says he.

            “Really,” I laugh, looking at the clock. “And you just decided to tell me. The other kids won’t even leave tonight until 6:30.”

            “Yeah, I know,” he shrugs. “And Jack is counting on camping.”

            I nod my head, but hold my tongue. I like Seattle and my dear husband knows it. I like fish, and we have not had a lot of it lately. And, I love The Crab Pot. I laugh. He tossed that damn ball back in my court with a carrot attached. Damn, he’s good. 

            “So, what do you think?” he asks.

            “I wonder how were going to pay for it?” I say. “I can’t pull two nights stay in a hotel plus fish and dinner out of my budget.”

            “Oh,” he says.

            Game changer!

            The bus has to honk its horn because neither of us noticed it was there. As I run for the door I hear him call after me.

            “I’m going to finish my chores. I’ll be in within one hour and we’ll make a decision.”

            “Okay.”

            Suddenly, with the thought of one little boy between us, we are again on the same team.

            However, six hours and two beers later we are still sitting across the table, starting at one another while our son cuts up his grapefruit and patiently waits us out. No one had packed. Not for sun, not for snow, and certainly not for Seattle. I’ve made no food for camping, nor do I even know if our sleeping bags are clean. No wood has been chopped for a campfire. No hotel has been accommodated. I'm about to break out a bottle of rum and build my own fire out back!

            “How about Quinn’s Hot Springs,” I add hopefully.

            “No, it’s too late now to drive that far.”

            I slap my hand on the table and start laughing.

            “That’s not as far as Seattle,” I say.

            “Yeah,” he says, “but there’s no point in adding more options to this. We have enough already.”

            “Then let’s go to Lewiston,” I say. “It’s only an hour and a half away. I’ll be fine camping there. And Jack just wants to camp.”

            “Okay, but we’ll have to leave in the morning. I don’t want to set up a tent in the dark.”

            “Okay, fine,” I agree, happy to just have a plan. “Tomorrow morning it is.”

            I look to my husband, thankfully that we have made a plan without giving up, or worse, getting in an argument over who was trying to meet the others needs more.

            “Should I make food?” I ask. “Or are we just going to stop at the store. I baked chicken for dinner. We could throw that in the cooler. And I could make potato salad.”

            “Let’s just stop. It’ll be easier that way.”

            “Cool.”  

            By 830 on Saturday morning, I’m still in my jammies and have only had a half a cup of coffee by the time my darling has the car packed.

            “By the way, did you put that pop on the shelf in the garage?” he asks, stuffing the car full of camping gear.

            “Yeah,” I yawn. “I put it in there last fall after we were done camping. I was trying to keep it from the kids.”

            “It froze over the winter and exploded on our tent.”

            “Oh, crap. Can we still use the tent?”

            “We’ll have to,” he says. “We have nothing else to sleep in.”

            I tell Jack to load his stuff in the car, and I start packing my own. My husband comes in the house and I tell him I’m going to shower.

            “Shower? We don’t have time for that.”

            “We'll make time,” I tell him. "It's Saturday for goodness sake." 

            “You seen the roasters dear?” he calls while I’m washing my hair.

            “No. Have you checked the camping shelf?”

            “Yeah, not there. I checked the camper too.”

            “I’ll look when I’m done.”

            “How much longer? We need to get this show on the road?”

            As long as I want, I mouth to myself. It took a whole week just to get this far!

            “I’m almost done,” I say sweetly.

            I wash, dry and race out to the camper, eagle-eying the minutes that are passing on the clock. I know he’s got 9:00 A.M. on his silent radar. If we don’t leave by then the whole weekend will be rushed and ruined. I found the roasters. They were in the camper on the floor, right where they always are.

            “Don’t forget flashlights and batteries,” he says. “Oh, and a lighter. Do we have newspaper for starting a fire?”

            I gave up the coffee and have started counting his words again. One hour later we are in the van, with a sticky tent, some sleeping bags, no food and a very excited little boy. We are only three miles down the road when my husband realizes that in his desire to get this weekend rolling expediently he has forgotten to eat breakfast and totally spaced packing his own clothes.

            “Where’s that chicken?” he smiles. “I’ll just eat that.”

            “I left it in the fridge.”

            “What? Why? I thought we made that for camping. ”

            “You said we were camping in the city. You said we’d just stop at the store.”            

            “The city? See. I know it.  You don’t want to go there. Where do you want to go? I’m open for anything. Just tell me.”

            The curtain closes on a small boy, playing with his beanie babies in the backseat, rolling his eyes and sighing audibly.

~Postscript~

           

            You, the reader, exhausted and now completely cured of any desire to camp this summer, are asking yourself, when pray tell are the other two week-ends in the year that are so super stinking important to these people for their spontaneous weekend adventure? The next one is the weekend just before Harvest, and the other one is just before Fall Work. And yes, we are already planning. Both of us, separately. Our son has already made plans as well. Only he's made plans with another family.