Unfinished Business

Newsletter 2026-03-02

I hate leaving things unfinished. That doesn’t mean I don’t leave them that way. It just means I spend a lot of time in a state of hate. I started this paragraph two hours ago and finally got around to adding these extra sentences right now. I’m the same way with the projects in my house that actually matter. I wrote an entire newsletter about how I had gone nine months without picking out and installing handles on our new pantry doors. I could have used the same time to make a decision and do the installation. But then I still would have had to have come up with something to write about, so maybe I made the right call. I had a similar situation with the Lego Super Star Destroyer that’s been vexing me since my kids’ Triple Birthday Party last May. I’ve written multiple newsletters about the times my family and I have repeatedly tried and failed to assemble it. If I had applied all of that writing time to my latest attempt, perhaps I’d be done by now. For once, I have visible progress to report on both fronts. I could have waited for this announcement until both the pantry handles and Lego set were done, but this might be the furthest I ever make it. Let’s enjoy this milestone for what it is and put off the actual work of finishing a little bit longer. I’m okay with embracing my self-hatred one more time.

Sometimes, if I put things off for long enough, my readers do them for me. The comments left here have improved my life more than once. After I wrote about how we’ve been blocking off our pantry with a chair for nearly a year because we still hadn’t picked out handles, readers jumped into the comments section with suggestions. I liked all of the proposed ideas, mainly because they were more elegant solutions than continuing to block the doors with a piece of furniture. I set the bar pretty low. I waited a few days for just the right moment—or simply because I can’t help but procrastinate even when I’m literally handed the solution—and then proposed my favorite choice from the comments to my wife, Lola. She wasn’t a fan. Instead, she picked one sent to us by our real-life friend, Delilah, after she read the same article. Instead of taking care of a more pressing obligation she was dreading, Delilah procrastinated for two hours by looking up pantry door fixtures so I didn’t have to. After being unsure for nearly a year, Lola was certain that she didn’t want the one I suggested but did want the one Delilah proposed. She might not know what she wants, but she knows what she doesn’t, and that’s whatever I pick. She gave me the green light to place the order. In the distance, I heard a choir of angels sing. I hit the “buy” button before Lola could change her mind. If she knew I liked those handles as much as she did, she would have backtracked immediately.

The handles arrived the days later. They looked even better than in the pictures (as if Lola would ever pick something in bad taste). They were hand-crafted brass loops on metal plates with a pin to hold them closed. That last part was vital. We didn’t want any of our indoor mini livestock getting into the pantry. We weren’t sure if that pin would be enough. None of the reviews said anything about stress-testing the slide lock against pigs. I took a chance on them anyway because I didn’t want it to be another ten years before we moved forward. It still might have taken a decade to get the handles from the box to the doors if not for another fortuitous occurrence: My father-in-law, Bob, who can fix anything, was coming over to babysit. I casually sent him a text that mentioned, if he came early, he could also do some home projects. That was like telling him he won the lottery. He’ll never miss a chance to save the day.

Normally, Lola and I don’t hesitate to leave our kids at home without us. The problem was that, this time, they had to be somewhere else. Lola and I were scheduled to go to a fancy fundraising dinner for teachers on the same night the BSA Scouts were having a skating party. Separately, those are Lola’s two favorite events of the year. The fact that they both fell on the same night felt like a personal affront. She might have a secret enemy among local non-profits. We chose the fundraiser for ourselves since our friends had already purchased tickets for us. We asked Lola’s parents to take our girls to the skating party. Then I also asked Lola’s dad to install the handles while he was over here because I’m a taker. He was right to be reluctant to let me marry into the family. Really, he needs me to fill up his time. Bob showed up hours before the skating party, just like I asked. He had the handles installed before I got home from work. If I had attempted it myself, my various missteps would have warranted another two thousand words. Instead, the task was simply completed without incident or complaint. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be that competent. Bob walks around the world doing things rather than talking about doing them at some undetermined point in the future or explaining why he can’t do them at all. He’s missed out on a vital part of the human condition. Maybe he’s been an android all along.

The one project he couldn’t help me with was the Lego Super Star Destroyer. It’s been the bane of my existence since it arrived at my house during the same Triple Birthday Party where we revealed the new pantry doors without handles. The set was a gift for my friend Greg, who, the year before, discovered it was more impactful to give my daughters one giant set instead of three medium-sized ones. He won the Triple Birthday Party two years ago by giving them the Lego Hogwarts Castle. The Lego Super Star Destroyer was his encore in 2025. My kids worked on it throughout the summer but eventually stopped. I thought they were simply distracted. They were actually defeated. The set was so unwieldy and fragile that it reached a point where adding new pieces knocked off just as many old ones. I helped them disassemble the set and encouraged them to start over again. They did but hit a wall like the first time. Then I tried, disassembling everything and going back to page one of the instruction book. I made it to step five hundred before the whole thing crumbled in my hands due to a critical mistake I made in the spine of the ship way back on step ten. That was the week of Christmas. It took me a good month to face my failures and disassemble the set yet again. Mostly, I got motivated because Greg made fun of me for being bad at Legos. The only reason I ever do anything is out of spite. Now, I’m in the thick of reassembly with a self-imposed deadline of this year’s Triple Birthday Party, when Greg will show up again to judge my progress. We both know I’m a failure, but I’d like the Legos to lie and say otherwise. Time is rapidly running out.

I’ve had my latest attempt out on a six-foot-long card table for a month. This time, I’m following some advice from people smarter than me. Lola recently rebuilt Lego Rivendell, which was fully assembled when she purchased it second-hand. As she took it apart, she neatly organized the pieces by size, shape, and color to make reassembly easier. I didn’t have to worry about colors because the Super Star Destroyer is gray mixed with gray with a pop of gray as an accent. Having the pieces organized in a way I could find them made going through the first five hundred steps much faster this time. I can only imagine how fast I’ll be if I fail yet again and have to do them for a third or fourth time. Eventually, I’ll be able to assemble the first five thousand pieces with my eyes closed. Practice makes perfect, but only if it doesn’t also destroy your soul. I’m finally beyond my furthest point of progress from last time. I’m breaking new ground. In fact, I think I can see the finish line. But I’m writing about the Super Star Destroyer now rather than after I’m actually done because there’s still a chance it could all fall apart. I want the world to know that, after months of effort, I’m three-quarters of the way there. Please clap.

I’m not out of the woods yet. The ship is basically a long, narrow pyramid turned on its side, with each of the four main planes facing outward at a different angle. The four individual sides consist of thousands of pieces assembled over hundreds of pages of instructions. Those huge sections have to be attached to the ship in one nerve-wracking step each. I couldn’t get the first one, which was on the bottom, to connect at all. I called in Lola for assistance. She has more precise fingers and more patience than I do. It still took her forty-five minutes. When I say this set is fiddly, I mean it. If you press too hard, it will snap in half. If you give it a mean look, it will burst into flames.

When it came time to attach the second bottom panel, I attempted to install it on my own. It took me about ten seconds to realize that was a bad idea. I cried out for help as I held the sections precariously against each other and critical supports started to snap apart. My fifteen-year-old, Betsy, rushed to my aid. She wants to be an obstetrician when she grows up, but maybe she should become a surgeon. Her steady hands could save lives. She deftly reconnected the parts that fell off as I struggled to hold everything together. It took half an hour of our combined efforts before the situation stabilized. When everything appeared to be attached, we stepped away and held our collective breath. The ship held. Two panels down. Two more to go.

I didn’t attempt to attach the next panel, which was the first on top, until Betsy was beside me. I knew I would need immediate assistance and didn’t want the patient to die before she could get there. Even with her help, I accidentally snapped off the entire front of the ship. She worked hard to undo my mistakes as quickly as I made them. I’d like to say I’m confident that, with her help, I’ll soon build and attach the fourth and final side, but the fact that I’m writing this after doing just three of them proves that’s a lie. I know my capabilities. More importantly, I know my track record. I wouldn’t be surprised if the process ends in tears rather than a completed spaceship. As frustrating as this has been, it’s the most use we’ve ever gotten out of a set. Other sets take me a day at most. This one kept my family occupied for a year. If I really do finish it this time, there will also be tears, but of joy. Those will likely transition to tears of despair if I try to move the thing. Its permanent home is supposed to be upstairs on top of the bookshelves in the play room. If I pick it up off the card table that’s currently serving as its space dock, however, I’ll likely be holding rubble. It might be easier to move the play room to the ship than the ship to the playroom. It would take less time to rearrange the entire house than to rebuild this set. Hopefully, Lola understands. If not, I can let the ship fall apart and hide the pieces somewhere. Maybe in the pantry.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James