Dear Mom and Mother-in-Law: I swear I’m not going to give away the Jellyman’s LEGOs. This is fiction. Mostly.
good – oh, I don’t honestly care – home:
Approximately 80 million LEGOs. Used to be part of some “deluxe edition” sets like the Millennium Falcon or the Statue of Liberty, but I cannot be bothered to sort them all out. You deal with it.
Some pieces may be missing and/or chewed up and subsequently rescued from the vacuum bag. Previous owner devoted hours, possibly days, to assembly and appreciation of his freakin’ projects, leaving not-to-be-disturbed sorted piles of the damn things all over the family room floor in the process. Missing pieces will only expand your own pleasure, drawing out the process even longer as you try to figure out whether you actually have enough bricks (that’s LEGO geek speak for “LEGOs”) to complete any given project. Good luck with that.
One way or another, I am going to make sure my instep is never skewered by another one of those pegs. Hundreds of dollars down the drain, feeding a grown man’s toy addiction, and I swear to God, if I have to listen to one more lecture about how I’ve broken the race car while trying to dust it, or misplaced figures in the Star Wars ships by putting Jedis where Storm Troopers clearly belong, I am going to grind those little bumpy heads into LEGO powder and put it in his drink.
Just last night, he came home with another new set. My treasured collection of Matryoshka dolls is sharing space with what is, I am assured, a very accurate model of an old-fashioned
train locomotive, I don’t have any room for the lovely blue vases I brought home from the Czech Republic because every surface is covered with tacky plastic, and he’s buying more!?
No way. You can have ’em. Call 555-5555 by this time tomorrow. That’s when the garbage truck comes, and I can’t wait another week.
*This is a post inspired by a prompt from The Red Dress Club.