Attacking the Problem

I'm not sure whether anyone else has noticed, but the price of gas has gotten a little out of hand.

We have to address the crazy price of fuel somehow, but my coupon scissors are rusty. And who am I kidding? Coupons cannot dent this behemoth machine. Inflationary gas laughs in the face of flimsy newsprint 25-cent-off deals. Our fuel bill this month? $1334. No, I did not misplace a decimal.

Sarah suggested that the EGE might want to ride a horse to work. This could prove to be a good idea. I can see him now: calculator in one hand, reins in another, khakis astride a saddle, 19-inch laptop cleverly balanced on the horn.

The only real question is how to get the field crews out of their diesel-guzzling SUV rigs and onto horseback too. All the guys on the crew are outdoorsy -- maybe that's why they work on the field crew. It shouldn't be a far leap to equestrian surveying and engineering. I spy a new niche market. (Or not. I just had a mental picture of one of the 300-pound liberally tattooed guys tromping through brush while holding a big yellow tripod on horseback. Not exactly King Arthur's court.)

When we were 20-something newlyweds, kidless and fancy free, my husband and I drove 1966 Chevy Malibus. The cars were 20-something too, and super cool. Like salt and pepper shakers, his was gunmetal gray and mine was pearl white. They got approximately two miles to the gallon, but we looked goo-ood going down the road. At one point the EGE even told me that I needed to have more "attitude" in order to drive his muscle car coupe (mine was the four-door).

These days the EGE drives a sensible black sedan and I drive the oft-chronicled big white beast of a Suburban. Still like salt-and-pepper shakers. However, no one gets whiplash off a stop sign and no one flags us down on the interstate wanting to buy our cars.

But we only get marginally better than the two miles per gallon of our youth. Of course, at that point, gas was closer to one dollar a gallon than five. Sigh.

Back in the day (feeling older with each keystroke), the EGE was still in school, and I was a cub reporter at a daily paper. We earned about as much per hour as it took to buy a gallon of gas. Our rent on a quaint riverfront cottage was $225 per month. The EGE mowed and did yard work for our landlords to offset some of that. I swear we used to cruise the aisles of the grocery store, Sherm's Thunderbird Market, dreaming of the day we could afford name-brand groceries. My mother used to ship huge care packages of dry goods to the starving students, otherwise known as us.

These days, I cruise the perimeters of the grocery store once a month, plant a huge garden, avoid name brands and packaged goods like the costly plague they are, and dream of filling the gas tank for less than $150. And my secondary dream is feeding the horses for less than it costs to feed my children. This is why Sarah's suggestion of a mounted engineer was brilliant.

I can see us entering a whole new chapter of our lives, horseback and living off the land. Who needs a Suburban when I have a double jogging stroller and internet access? Really. This will teach those darn oil companies a lesson.

Today I Was Not Nice

I have found through my extensive research that niceties are nice, and niceness is nice, and pretty is as pretty does, and that a whole bunch of nice gets me exactly nowhere sometimes.

I had the most awesome tackle planned for today. Let me tell you. I was even going to venture out into pictures of the before and after, because I have become emboldened by the pictures of the office of my new crap-stashing soul sister Barb (you are such an inspiring writer, Barb, and I hope you're not creeped out by me saying, I saw your boxes and recognized them).

I am over the humiliation (time heals all wounds) of a couple weeks' ago, when an inadvertently placed "daffodil vase" in a "before" picture of my kitchen made blog headlines on blogs other than my own. It only took a few margaritas to feel better, really. (Now I feel the need to reiterate that I only drink Diet Coke, but I know this will bring down the hellish hilarity of some farmchicky friends, so I'm restraining myself.) I was moving on to a new tackle. Kitchen, done. Mortification, noted and worth it. Laundry room, N-E-X-T.

Anywhat, as usual, my plans for my tackle are sidetracked by life in general. How do you think my laundry room came to look like this?

Please don't dissect that photo and find any liquor bottles. If they're hiding in there, I just don't want to know. Life in general is just nuts. That laundry room is certifiable. And it looks like this within minutes of finishing digging it out. I am in true confession mode now, because I want you to believe me when I say:

Today I Was Not Nice.

Right before I got down to tackling that horrific disorganization pit we like to call our laundry room and alternately Mt. Washmore (I was gonna make a system! I was gonna make a difference! I was gonna make my husband so happy!), the home office line rang. It rung. It was ringing. I am so discombobulated by what ensued that my grammar has left me.

On the line was the EGE, and in his hand was a certified letter. I don't think they send certified letters for your birthday. Certified in letters, as in the case of insanity, is not good. Not good at all. The EGE calmly (he is the King of Calm) read such letter to me. It had terrible ramifications. It asserted points that if proven would have us likely out of business before June 2. This was bad, and let me say again, not good.

Oh, how I wish I could dish! A woman who must have VERY BAD life problems had messed with us in a VERY BAD way which involved LYING and COVERING HER DERRIERE and then some more LYING and then it all resulted in the letter that sidetracked my important but not urgent laundry room excavation. I hope y'all can forgive me (I know you're the forgiving sort).

Now of course the EGE had important and urgent things he had to be doing which are not related to this little letter bomb. And of course the letter had to be dealt with today. I quickly (remember my wardrobe tackle? and how well that turned out?) threw on a skirt and knit blouse. I had the presence of mind to wear pumps instead of maryjanes. It is important when kicking business butt to look the part, methinks.

Then I loaded Grace and Sarah into the Suburban with snacks in a bag (sometimes I can be organized) and went to town, figuratively and literally. With a baby on one hip, my bra securely inside my blouse, and Grace on an extra computer playing puzzles, I worked the phones like there was no tomorrow. I spoke calmly and politely BUT NOT NICELY with the devil herself. I stood my ground and it was the high ground. Said phone conversation partner weaseled and smoke screened and in general showed her lovely character. I then waited on hold while she doubtless poisoned the pot with her boss.

The boss came on the phone. He was prepared for me to be a shrew. But I had something better than shrewishness, and it was, pardon me, balls. I channeled my dad, who is Mr. Business. I had all my documentation in front of me and I. did. not. back. down. Very politely (but without an ounce of nice) I let him know that the letter writer and hatchet thrower was full of [other-than-the-scent-of-new-mown-grass] and that her actions had serious consequences that we would be happy to pursue in court if he did not rescind the action notified to us in the letter of the year. Right now.

I even used my super-low mommy voice. You know the one.

You also know I was sweating big time. You know it was a good thing we were on the phone and not across a conference table because I 'bout wet my pants with the stress of being simply assertive. I was shaking so much when I hung up that I think it qualified as a workout. But I won! I didn't use honey, but I wasn't out to catch flies. I was swimming with the sharks, and I'm no Gidget (shaddup).

I think I'll have that Diet Coke now. I have conquered business. The laundry room will have to wait another day. That'll be nice. (See what I did there? With the nice?)

Not Ready to Make Nice

The other day my 4-year-old, Grace Hannah, spent an entire time-out muttering that she couldn't kick the grumpies. It appears she came by that stance quite honestly. I am, in the words of the immortal Dixie Chicks: not ready to make nice/not ready to back down/still mad as hell/not willing to go 'round and 'round.

Temper, temper.

All afternoon I've been the emotional equivalent of a preschooler. I can't reign it in, can't throw my grumpies in the garbage. Someone is bullying me and I just want to spit. Really, spit. How mature of me. But it's so primal, this ire, and why lie to compound the sin? I want to roll around kicking and screaming about how unfair is the situatuion. I want to make a scene and make a point and make a chocolate cake and eat it all by myself.

My mother-in-law used to listen to my stories of some small injustices the girls had to endure at school. I thought I was mad at that time, my mother tiger coming out with claws and such. My husband and my people KL and Caro have undoubtedly done more than their shares of listening to my slightly obsessive irksome issues with the real estate career resentment/predatory broker paranoia/horse and neighbor crankiness. But none of those have come close to truly hitting where it hurts in my life. When people call me a name or call into question my character, I feel a little rush of justifiable anger. When others bully my children, I know exactly what button is pushed. I have a few skills; I can swim with the sharks for finite periods of time. But this, this new venture, has taken me to a depth where it appears my snorkel gear can't save me.

And how many metaphors can I cram in the clown car anyway?

I am trying to explore this emotion without pointing any fingers or revealing any details that could come back to haunt me with the thought police. Suffice it to say, it's not just my kids being bullied or my commission pilfered. This time I feel the weight of ten families' paychecks and attendant mortgages and gymnastics lessons and grocery bills. I feel the lies we've been fed are poison that spreads by some unseen channels to infect even those who never were suckered by the bald mean untruths.

So sometimes on even the most picturesque, puffball-clouds-in-a-blue-sky-day, it'd be better if I never contemplated this relationship I must continue. It'd be better if I said to myself, self, you're just going to get madder than hell and spiral down from there. It does nothing for logical thought nor productive action. It makes you into an ugly version of yourself. So if you're not ready to "make nice," maybe you should do that other cliche you missed in yesterday's blog: fake it 'til you make it. Self, fake nice when you can't make nice.

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The baby is asleep in my lap. The neighbors are mowing. C's husband changed the locks (six of them; talk about *nice*) at the office today. Shelly kept the big girls after school today while I was in town -- so they got to chase Shelly's boys around their property all afternoon. The beaver spared her plum and peach trees. My chicks are getting bigger and Two Spot's still gaining weight even though the vet said it might take the weather warming at night before he'd make progress. My list of blessings is long and good to contemplate.

This morning is like the first bite out of a chilled apple. The landscape taut and defined, the views each framed by fog like a photographer's custom lens trick. On mornings like this I feel supremely blessed to walk around our farmyard acre, feeding animals and checking on plants.

I even woke up at a farmer's hour this morning. Ryan was up at 5, the baby and I shortly after. Madeleine and Sarah dutifully up at 6:15. Ryan asked Madeleine whether she slept in her clothes, so quickly did she get dressed. That girl was born organized. She always chooses her outfit the night before. Sarah is more of a mini me (read: *not* born organized) and spends her dressing time holding the baby, drinking her cocoa, finishing a puzzle. When it's time to go she will exclaim that she has no socks. Usually that is the least of her problems at that point.

Grace didn't wake up until 7:30, just as the girls were leaving for school. She is engrossed in Clifford, eating her circle toast (English muffin) and drinking her cocoa. Today she is going to "gramma 'nita's" while Laura and I go to work with Ryan.

Things at the office are weird. I don't know if that word is right. Actually, I know that word is wrong, but I can't put my brain on the right one. We are facing our second round of payroll, figuring out the cash flow, trying to stay positive as we wait for the busier season to roll around. The phone has started to ring quite a bit and we implemented a system for the estimates to get back out in a timely manner. Ryan is rolling right along with his city contract and trying to find time to do other billable work and get the office going. We have this last payroll check to pay for the sellers' vacation time, then the first payment on the note. We have to talk to them about employment going forward. The first couple of weeks of the new business Ryan was still at his old job and I wondered often whether I have the stomach for running a company. Well, that's a moot question, really. We just do it, to quote Nike.

So my second cup of coffee is almost gone, I'm still in my PJs/barn clothes (this is when I roll out of bed in my sweats and throw one of Ryan's shirts over the whole outfit, slip on my rubber garden shoes and call it good) and I am supposed to deliver Grace to the neighbor's house in 20 minutes. Better go clean up and put on office attire.