Oil Negotiations

February 12, 2009

I need to pay our oil company by 4 o'clock this afternoon.

I know that sounds like a fairly straightforward transaction--oil truck fills tank, oil man leaves bill, Amy pays oil company--but dude, it's completely not. This is going to be very, very complicated.

Our heater, you see, crapped the bed a few weeks ago and we ended up paying five hundred bucks to have it serviced. Fair price? Yes. Great service? Of course. Drained the remaining funds from our household oil account? You bet your ass it did.

Actually, that last one was a lie--we never had a household oil account to deplete. The Lawsons, you see, tend to use the 'Hell Yeah-Oh No' accounting system. In case you're interested in implementing this fine system in your own family, here's how it works...

Any given Monday:
I would like to pay the electric company so we may continue to watch American Idol on Tuesday nights. I wonder if we have enough money to do that. Checks bank account on-line. Hell yeah we do!

Any given Thursday:
Walks out to the mailbox to retrieve the latest issue of US Weekly and finds and overdraft notice from Maine Savings Bank. Oh no.

Very simple.

Today falls comfortably into the 'Oh no' side of the equation--and actually, I've been anticipating this scenario for a week or so.

I live and work in a very small town, so I see the owner of the oil company often--and let me tell you, he's one heck of a nice guy. Just this week alone I've run into Roger at the grocery store, at a public meeting, and in front of the funeral home when I was out walking my dog.

When I saw Roger at the grocery store, he tapped James--who was siting in the cart--on the top of the foot, looked at me and said, "Cute kid."

"Thanks Roger," I replied! "I'll trade him for that tank of oil...and then I'll baby sit for you all the time--free of charge! Whatta deal!"

No dice.

The next time I ran into Roger at the public meeting, I leaned over and whispered, "Hey Roger, I'll write you a poem all about the Chief of Police if you give me that oil for free."

No luck.

"Draw a picture of him in his skivvies?"

Still no luck.

And last night, when I ran into Roger while I was walking Gracie, he cut me off at the pass..."Nope, sorry Ms. Lawson, I don't want your dog."

Damn.

So I'm not sure what to do today. So far I've narrowed it down to two offers:

1. I'll wear a HappyTown Fuel t-shirt everywhere I go for the next six months.

or

2. I'll show him my boobs (cause his wife's got a pair of drumsticks, if you know what I mean).

If all else fails, I guess I could write the guy a check--but my goodness, where's the fun in that?

(click here for past tales of Amy's bartering escapades)