Link: http://whistlecorps.com/blog/

Alright. So, let’s recap: instability is a reality of modern working life. So too, right now anyway, is international economic failure. It’s not our fault, nor are we realistically empowered to affect the macrofactors – those are, say, the confluence of systemic failures in our economic and health care systems; transfer of political and economic power to market forces and an invisible, unaccountable elite; and the rise of self-interest at the cost of social morality (oh, let’s just say) – that are tossed down like routine thunderbolts from on high to randomly ruin the individual lives that happen to be napping beneath.

I’m not bitter. Okay, maybe just a little. But, basically, even though Mike was let go Friday – despite a long and productive (and award-winning) record of achievement at the They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named multinational telecommunications behemoth – our emotional ducks are seated, beaks clapped shut by the holy bonds of “Serenity now!”, in a neat little row. Everyone here is sleeping at night.

Emotionally, we’re cool. Financially, we have a few decisions to make.

We started this business, as I mentioned before, for two reasons: (1) pay tuition at our daughter’s private school and (2) emergency contingency plan, the insurance we knew we’d need. You might read ‘private school’ and think we’re living a haughty and privileged life where the term “broke” is measured in six figures, rather than two; but understand this: private elementary school in Central Virginia is not, relatively speaking, an expensive affair. It’s one of the primary reasons why we moved here from the high-rolling ‘burbs of Washington, D.C. Also, where you may see your late model car and non-Salvation Army wardrobe as budgetary non-negotiables, we see those as luxuries and vow to lose our old cars, our used shirts and even our house before we give up our kid’s school. So, let’s not have the private school argument here.

Okay, so the business clears about $10k annually, after expenses. That’s it. (For the record, we spend the rest of our time doing pro bono work.) That was our target. We saved the ten-grand in cash every year, and Mike maxed his 401K investment.

We bought the house we’re in now about five years ago because it was cheaper to live in (being smaller, closer to town and out of an expensive homeowner’s association) than our last (much prettier) house, and because we poured cash equity in it to get a lower mortgage and paid off our consumer debt when we did so. We bought less house than the mortgage companies were willing us into at the time.

Smart enough?

Okay, well. The problem was: no cash cushion. We had no credit cards – we were consciously avoiding consumer debt, knowing it would complicate finances when Mike was inevitably laid off – but no cash to cover emergencies. And, as the owner of a recently and unplanned new-and-improved septic system, I can tell you one thing with certainty: shit happens. (I don’t know if cussing is allowed on blogs. People often do that silly “sh*t” thing, but I find I’m just not in the mood to dress up my invectives. They stand as is. If you’re underage or oversensitive, go away.)

That situation led to the home equity line. We used it a few times, but never abused it. I used it, in fact, as an idiot’s savings account: paying our Whistle Corps earnings (i.e. tuition money) into it. Then, three months before tuition came due in 2008, the bank sent a letter to the effect, “Congratulations. Your home value has plummeted by an impressive margin. We’ll take that equity line back now, and good luck with things. Call us if you want a credit card.”

We had a vacation planned. I set cash aside to pay for it; airline tickets were purchased long before. Now, we were in a situation where we had to raise $10k in three months and leave for the first vacation we’d ever had, which was now just one of the many we couldn’t afford in the first place.

That led to credit cards. In my defense, I purposely acquired low-balance accounts, familiar as I am with the aforementioned shit that happens and knowing those cards would be maxed in a matter of time. In the meantime, economic meltdown continued to visit our dilapidated door in the form of banks repossessing overdraft accounts, raising rates, inventing new fees and all manner of fiscal treachery.

When the stock market crashed, so did our savings. Our parents see retirement savings as sacred, for the long term. But can we afford a long term view on those accounts anymore, when our equity is gone, cash spent, job market vanished and 401K, therefore, our only resource in the event (the inevitable event) of layoff? My folks don’t understand it. They say, “Don’t even look at the market!” Meanwhile, I’m watching the dive down into the deep end and thinking, ‘Who the hell can afford to get old anymore?’

So, it leads to this: our consumer debt load (car and two credit cards) is less than $10k. Not good, not the worst thing ever. Our retirement savings, decimated as they are, amount to about one tight year’s expenses. His severance package, worth about $15k, after taxes. It costs us $3000 a month to live. Our business hums along like usual at the $10k p/year rate, except that 30% of the accounts receivable I have on the books right now are seriously, hopelessly overdue.

That’s not great prospects. But, get this: if They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named offer Mike a new position in another department, we are inclined to turn it down. And, keep in mind, private school stays. Non-negotiable expense.

Are we insane?! And can you guess why we’d make what is, on the face of things, such a blame fool decision? (Seriously, I’m asking you to tell me why.)

I’m not a natural entrepreneur. There are things about owning a small business that I hate, outright and downright to the very elements of my cellular being. Let me list them for you here, in no particular order (because I hate without discrimination): happy talk, negotiations, the phrase “Let’s filter this”, off-site meetings, money, hosiery and, God help me, networking.

Technically, I’m not cut out for business ownership. But we find that the corporate economy isn’t doing us any favors, either: it has divested us of control, and put us at the mercy of those macrofactors and the macroegos that wield them. So, small business is our refuge: it is the swamp land we’ve been pushed into and high time I learned to love it.

Mike is still looking for a job. And there may yet come an offer we can’t refuse. An offer like that, let me tell you, will come gilded and polished, drawn by golden winged ponies whistling Beatles tunes. Finances are a challenge, yes; but freedom requires sacrifice … and a plan.

First, I contacted delinquent clients. Imagine how much I hate doing that. Now double your imaginings and spread a boiled artichoke paste on it. You’re getting close. My efforts haven’t resulted in collections, technically speaking, but I have at least thrust my toe into the pool of grown-up necessaries.

Second, we’re working out a logistics and compensation plan with someone we’ve known and loved for years. She’s an executive-level sales manager, a networking veteran and all-around people person. She completes me. Do we need a big cash salary offer to entice her? No! We’re working on creative ideas that’ll make her money and take me out of the customer loop. Far out to pasture, where I belong.

There are third, fourth and fifth phases to the plan, but I think you get the idea. The situation, undesirable as it is, has the effect of distilling away the distracting forces (yes, a big salary is one of those), leaving us comforted by the essentials: security and relationships.

I’ll let you know how it goes.