Loathing Lego's

I hate legos. At home with a cold the other day, I am unable to just lie in bed. Kid free, alone in the house. I can literally count on one hand the number of times this has happened to me. The day looms large, cabinets are just yearning to be organized, internet sites to surf, kids clothes to sort and ohhhhh goodness, lifetime movies to watch! But Christmas is coming, and we are on kid crap overload, and should be more preparing for the "more kid crap" overload coming soon. So, nose clogged, chest feeling like it is filled with lead, I tackle the toy boxes in our playroom. 'Cause you see I pretty much ping pong between a laissez faire "just throw it anywhere so it is outta sight" attitude or an amp'ed out P-Touching-OCD-organizer universe. I don't own a P -Touch, and am not on a first name basis with the people at the Container Store, but I admit it. I strive one day to be like this. I am a serious binger of all "crap" in the house to the extent that CJ threatened therapy. So, I try to play it cool, and not be too excited that I am alone, a box of hefty saks in hand and the hours stretched before me. I tackle the lego's first, knowing there will be a day when I am able to reach organizational lego nirvana. I can beat this. There are other reviled kid things that I have learned to live in harmony with: do-it-yourself beading kits, moon sand, play doh, lincoln logs.....the list goes on. But legos... Here is why I cannot make peace with this brand: you purchase a box set of "City Racers" or "Mission to Mars" and once constructed and ohhhhh'ed and ahhhhh'ed upon it gets destroyed and thrown in a big ol bin. The little step by step brochure? In the big ol bin too. But it will never be constructed again. The ol bin is just a mess of teeny tiny little pieces mixed in with dog hair, and dried bits of play doh . We've ziplocked and sorted within an inch of our life - we've even dedicated a shelf in the closet, but nothing will ever resurrect Indiana Jones and the Tomb Raider to it's original state. It just ain't happenin'. And now there's the BMW. All torn to bits, parts shoved everywhere, looking like a rejected Speed Racer set. But this little project of ours needs thousands of dollars in parts to make it a set again. When Colin shows me pictures of his progress, I feel that same uneasy heartbeat and itchy armpit that signals I am really worried. But forward we go, and I have no doubt Colin will make our little "Red Bird" whole again. He worked as a mechanic years ago many places, but namely for Paul Heynneman to make some money while he was a reserve fire fighter waiting to get hired permanently. These were the days when I basically lived in Japan and left notes for CJ on the fridge, reminding him I loved him. I don't know if Paul realizes it, but the chap kept us going, filling in the blanks on mortgage payments and funding emergency reunions in Hawaii to remember why we married each other. CJ went to see him after we bought the car, and Paul told him he had a lot of 2002 parts still. Coincidentally, Paul is an alumni of the same Autozentrum in San Rafael where our little "Red Bird" had her service appointments. He told CJ he used to take the cars being serviced on test drives up our street. The "Red Bird" probably was test driven past our house many times decades before we lived here. So, a very long parts list to Paul later to supply us with all the window seal weatherstripping and body gaskets we need, CJ kept going with what he could get done part-free. He fixed the clock which he was super excited about. He re-soldered the bad ground wire and it now makes that faint ticking sound you should hear in a car like this. He took out the rear window and got more rust (damn rust!) out of the A & C pillars. He finished most of the body work and finished priming it for paint. Apparently, Paul also owns a set of BBS wheels cut specifically for a 2002 that CJ is coveting. The current wheels tend to rub a little bit, and I laughed when CJ told me that they rub the way my first car in high school (one of the boxy VW Jettas) rubbed when I had people (CJ was one of the "people") in the back. I bought that car from my brother, who then wrecked it about a week later avoiding a deer. Come to think of it, I also had a another tire rubbing car when I lived in the Caribbean. Some guy on the island called "Muff the Diver" (yes, for real) kept plowing his Ford Laser into the drainage ditch near the pub where we drank too much and played trivial pursuit. Muff the Diver had no business operating a motor vehicle or owning a dive operation, but he was remarkably talented in doing everything with a cigarette and beer in his hand. So, when ol Muff went off to Ft Lauderdale for an alcohol treatment stint (yeah, that was successful when we all lived in the Caribbean) I bought the Ford Laser for $150 bucks from his brother Kim. The car was seemingly great, until I picked up a rather large local woman on the side of the road to give her a lift to town. The tires rubbed so badly I smelled smoke. I surveyed the damage and could see I needed a new set of tires badly. I worked on a sailboat and went off on charter for about a week, and left the car with my parents while they were visiting with explicit instructions to put no one in the back seat or the tires would be toast. I returned to a car with two flats and my dad said it "just like that" right after I left. Riiiiight. That is why a 250 lb local lady bought him two Jagermeisters and thanked him for the ride home when we were sitting at the pub. Another $150 bucks gone, and carless again. Oh well, I had heard some guy had a VW Gurgel (like a Thing) on the other side of the island he was trying to offload for $50 bucks. He'd make it a custom marine plywood top for $75. It just didn't have keys. Now that I think about it, we just left that Ford Laser sitting in a dirt lot where my dad was unable to go further. I wonder if it is still there? I love you and miss you Dad. I wish you were here with us. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.