Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“That won’t do.” I open the bottom doors on either side of the stove. One is full of pots and pans, which need to stay. The other side holds my plastic containers for leftovers or prepared fruits and veggies away. Clearly, when Mom put things away, she was once again methodical. That means it’s time to see where else I can store my Pyrex collection. It’s bigger than one person needs, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll keep them forever and ever. I open and close a few more cabinets, mainly the upper ones, finding the glasses are stored there, along with coffee mugs. One for each place I’ve vacationed or visited. The uglier, the better. Different shapes, different sizes. As long as they’re big enough to hold the nectar of the gods, I’m happy. I move from the upper cabinets. Everything is where it truly needs to be. I open the bottom door closest to the fridge. There’s one too many shelfs for what I need, so I plop down on the floor. I’m wearing a tank top with a built-in bra, light on the padding and support, a heck of a lot more comfortable than wearing a normal bra all day while sitting at a computer more often than not. My bottoms are short but not too short that my ass cheeks hit the tile flooring. The fabric is a sweat-like material, soft enough to say the hell with panties. I’m only missing the zip-up hoodie I was wearing when I came downstairs this morning. Once I got to work around the house, the cold morning chill was gone and the sun beating down around the open blinds warms the house as I find places for everything.
“Oh my gosh, why is there four layers of shelving on top of one another?” I yank one out and set it off to the side, then attempt to pull the second one off, jerking with all my might, feet pressing to the bottom, arms weak from yesterday’s fiasco and not getting enough sleep. I keep going at it, shimmying this way and that, scooting backwards while I continue to tug on what seems like a glued shelf on top of another one.
“Come on, you butthole, get out of there.” One last shift of my hand upwards, trying to pop it up and maybe get it unwedged finally. Clearly, my day is going to be shitastic, especially when I hear the snapping of wood as my feet break the kick plate of the cabinet, the middle piece separating. The doors lets out a screech, and, well, I’m flat on my back, the shelves on top of me, needing to call a truce. “I hear you up there, fixer upper gods. I’m crying uncle, loud and clear.” I lie on the cool floor for a few more minutes, eyes closed, laughing so I don’t cry. I’ll call my father. He’ll be concerned, then laugh, then he’ll come over and see what else he can do to help his needy-ass daughter. Happy motherfreaking Monday. Maybe I should have started off my morning with a spicy margarita or a mimosa. Ugh. Work said otherwise. Plus, I usually reserve drinking with breakfast for when I’m on vacation, so that means it’s time to get up, swallow my pride, and once again ask for help.
I take another deep breath before I pull myself off the ground being sure not to use any part of the now destroyed cabinet or the one behind me. I don’t need another catastrophe to happen today. I pick up my phone and hit Dad on the screen after unlocking the device, seriously contemplating whether I should call it a day or not.
“Hey, kiddo, how’s your day going?” Dad answers on the first ring, probably waiting on my call, ready to come in and save the day.
“Hey, it’s going. Sorry to call again.” I already talked to Mom earlier today, our morning ritual of having coffee and chatting while I run through my emails and she opens the house and waters her plants.
“No need to apologize. I’m not at the office today and not showing any houses either. What can I do for you?” I knew if he was working, he’d send me to voicemail and then follow it up with a text, telling me he’d call back.
“Ugh, you know, well, I may have screwed up. I was trying to fix the kitchen to the right of the fridge, and, well, um, it’s currently in shambles. The bottom piece has two foot holes in it, and the center brace is hanging by a thread.” Dad chuckles on the other end of the line. I do the same. It is kind of funny, especially the foot holes.
“It’s a good thing I have a number for a contractor. I’ll forward you the information now. I’d like to say I’d be helpful in repairing it for the time being, but sweetheart, I’d rather re-plumb a kitchen sink than deal with wood working,” Dad says.