Wednesday June 10th, 2015

The exercise:

Write about: the fixer upper.

This morning I weeded one of our sections of carrots and then I used the rototiller to clean up the paths between several rows of plantings. It was glorious to do something other than pick strawberries.

Oh, and then I picked two more pints of strawberries for a customer who was coming by this afternoon.

Because of course I did.

Tomorrow though! Tomorrow I shall pick no strawberries.

Rebecca got off to a late start today, as her parents home flooded this morning. She stuck around to help out and do some plumbing (sounds like we've got a handywoman around the farm for the next while - I could get used to that) and then she hit the road. She didn't arrive until just after dark (she was dropping a friend off in Penticton and stayed to visit for a bit), but she did at last arrive.



"So... what do you think?" The real estate agent gave us her best smile and flourished her arm with an ease and grace which spoke to countless hours of practice in front of her bathroom mirror.

"Of the house?" I asked. Other reasonable options: of her, of the choices we'd made in our lives to reach that place and time, and of our chances of escaping with our sanity still intact.

"Yes, silly! Of course the house!" She laughed then. I was reminded of girls in my high school that laughed like that. I hated them all.

"Well, where should I begin?" It was an honest question, as it was difficult for me to pinpoint a starting point in that mess. Thankfully my wife was more prepared for the occasion.

"Maybe the hole on that wall, where I would assume a safe was once located?"

"Oh, that..."

"Or perhaps the pile of ash in the corner which, if I had to guess, was where they piled up all the furniture in the house and burned it. You know, judging by the smoke stains in that area."

"Nothing a good-"

"No, no. Let's just start with the man in the leg cast, who utterly reeks of booze, sleeping on the mattress in the middle of the kitchen?"

"Darlings, you did say you were in the market for a fixer upper, didn't you?"


Greg said...

You need to plant self-picking strawberries next year ;-) It sounds like you enjoyed the day more than you enjoyed the previous one, even if you did pick a few more strawberries that you'd wanted to. And you have your WOOFfle arrive as well, so you'll be able to delegate fruit picking now!
That's... quite the house really, though I do appreciate that it's got a facility for hiding a safe in the walls and there's an open fireplace too. Those features must surely push the price up a little. I did find myself smiling a lot while reading this and thinking that it would be nice ot have all of those features here in the office. Especially the obvious alcoholic, as opposed to the non-obvious ones here :)

The fixer-upper
The sign on her desk read Social Compatibility Consultant but it had been written in in felt pen over the original Fixer upper. Underneath was a name, Grace Cojo-Nez. I read it, looked at her, and smiled insincerely. She smiled uncertainly back, stood up and held out her hand.
She was wearing a blue lycra pantsuit with high waist, the kind of thing I thought I'd last seen on the Golden Girls. She was far too curvy for it as well, and it shimmered in the light as she wobbled slightly with every movement. She had huge glasses that I think Molly Ringwald had worn for her films in the eighties, and her hair was pulled back in an unflattering, tight bun. I shook her hand and sat down, dazzled by the vibrating lycra.
"I'm Felicity," she said, and I looked at the sign on her desk again. She looked down, and then smiled. "Oh, that's my predecessor," she said.
"Really? She died?" I asked.
"Oh yes," said Felicity, sitting down. "But not to worry, we vet all our clients much more carefully now."
I blinked, adjusting my thoughts, and then resettled my smile on my face. "You're a dating expert," I said.
"Social Compatibility Consultant," she countered, tapping the sign.
"That says fixer-upper," I said.
"Oh well, yes, Grace was always a little more blunt. She used to say that all she ever did was fix one person up with another. Or six others, in that one case." I raised an eyebrow, but Felicity dropped her gaze and kept silent.
"I'm looking for a woman," I said. "Strong, should be capable of wrestling a sheep. And winning," I added, as an afterthought. "Bathes daily, has her own teeth. Would help if she smiled at least once a day."
"Right, right." Felicity was busy writing it all down. She paused, looked up at me, and said, "Carry on!"
"That's it," I said. "That's my list of requirements."
"Uh." Felicity's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. "Uh. Number of arms and legs?"
"Whatever she comes with," I said. "Mind, if she can wrestle a sheep with no arms I might just pay extra."

Marc said...

Greg - uh, I would invest heavily in self-picking strawberries. Without hesitation.

This is a fascinating little business, with some references to some particularly fascinating past incidents. I would love to hear more from Felicity - or her predecessor!