The Red Bird

I received an email today from owner #2 Robbie - of Andy and Robbie. I was happy to hear that she was enjoying the blog, and not sticking pins in a little voo doo doll doppelganger of me. When you incorporate people into stories, good or bad, it always makes me feel a little devious that they are unknowingly going into my invisible basket of material for a later date. Maybe that is why I can never start my book. I will piss too people many off. Anyway, Robbie wrote to me about the "Red Bird," and how she used to shine in her day. This is not a picture of our car, but I what I envision she will look like when her day to shine returns. The painting of the car has been a hot topic in our house. CJ has done a lot of research, found great green tips for painting and being environmentally conscious, figured out how many coats of paint and clear coat are needed...and you see where this is going? He is campaigning to do this himself. Now, if you've read past entries or know CJ personally, you know that he is meticulous in everything he does. Packing for a roadtrip is like watching molasses drip slowly off a spool....he takes his time in ensuring everything is "just so". Thankfully, I have learned to dump everything in the driveway and let him configure it all in the truck to his hearts content. CJ is a calm person. He doesn't get his feathers ruffled easily. When the truck is finally packed, and the kids are being buckled up, what he doesn't want to hear is "can I have my American Girl doll from the back daddy?" Everyone's got a breaking point, and boy, this is his. But she is daddy's girl, and the whole big brown eyes, wide toothy smile thing gets him every time. "You need it now Hannah?" he implores. She just nods sweetly, as if she hasn't been sitting on the top step of the stairs watching this entire process go down. It is almost amusing to watch: he grits his teeth, rolls his eyes, makes some indistinguishable sound and painfully tears up his little rubix cube of bags and fishing poles in the back in search of one doll. He is the dishwasher loader in the house. Probably fits about 20 more things in there than I do. He even re-loads what I have just loaded. Maddening. When he folds laundry, he actually buttons the buttons and zips the zippers of every pair of pants in our family before folding. Who does that besides Alice from the Brady Bunch??? But, painting. Hmmmmmm, how do I say this since he will invariably be reading this??? Painting is just not his strength. He gets pissed at the roller and talks to it even though it can't talk back, tries to break some sort of invisible ticking timer and emerge as "SPEED PAINTER OF SAN RAFAEL!" And what's that? You say you want to go on holiday??? Come on over! Holidays are ALL OVER our walls! So, as we get closer to the "paint job" for the car, let's just say it's becoming an "animated conversation." We kind of stare each other down in the driveway, car between us, and change the subject rapidly before we start to look like the in-the-driveway-screaming-couple-from-across-the-street. I, of course, am gunning for a pro painter. I do recognize I am the one that lives in a world wanting certain things, and don't connect until after the fact that these things cost money. I accept this. But, as more things get stripped and primed, we are closer and closer to an inevitable showdown. Last night, a neighbor got wind of the "red bird". You know how it is in suburbia. He stopped by while walking his dog. Turns out, he used to have a car restoration business. He said "he's gonna paint it?? here??? Wow." And he did that thing guys do. You know, the incredulous chuckle while nodding and not making eye contact. I went inside, closed the door, ignored my kids desperate plea's for food and immediately rang CJ at the firehouse. Not home, answering machine. It is now 14 hours later. No call back. Maybe it was my message. Maybe I sounded too desperate to talk. Or maybe, just maybe, he somehow knew the subject.